


Entwining Threads

by FateChica



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-29 21:53:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FateChica/pseuds/FateChica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abbie and Ichabod's journey from reluctant partners to lovers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1 - Ichabod's POV

**_Ichabod's POV_ **

 

Ichabod Crane has never met a woman like Lieutenant Abigail Mills and he finds that fact amusing and perplexing at equal turns. She is unlike anything that could have existed in his era: a warrior, yet a woman; an equal among her peers despite the color of her skin. She is headstrong, but compassionate; strong-willed, but feminine. She is intrigue and irritability all wrapped up in a small package that barely reaches his chin. And she is the closest thing to a friend that Ichabod has in this new and confusing era he’s woken up in.

 

Fate has thrown them together – they are the Two Witnesses to the End Times, after all – but there is something more than that fact, and the fact that Miss Mills is his guide to the early 21st century, that has him valuing their time together, whether in the old Armory that serves as their base of operations or on the road in that metal box she insists on calling a “car”.

 

At first, Ichabod thinks it simple fascination. Miss Mills is so different from any person, man or woman, that he knows or has known, that he can’t help but want to catalogue every one of her quirks and foibles. This is what he tells himself as he finds himself unable to look away from the beguiling grin that crosses her face when she teases him for his anachronistic ways or when he has to hold himself back from reaching for her when it is as plain as day that she is in emotional distress only contained by the sheer power of her determination.

 

It takes 6 months before Ichabod figures out what is happening to him.

 

It is the middle of February. Weak sunlight filters in through the windows of the police station and the skies outside are gray with cold. He sits with Miss Mills at her desk, sorting through a horrendous backlog of paperwork that has piled up over a particularly busy two weeks of averting the Apocalypse. Ichabod is used to the routine by now: he puts the papers into some semblance of order while Miss Mills enters the information on her computer.

 

Ichabod looks up from the sheaf of papers in his hand in time to see Miss Mills close her eyes and tilt her head to one side to stretch out the stiffness in her neck. Ichabod finds himself in a moment frozen in time. His gaze follows the soft curve of her cheek; the fullness of her lips that begs to be traced by a man’s thumb; and as he drops his eyes to the enticing length of her neck, exposed by the V-neck sweater she wears, Ichabod imagines planting a trail of kisses from ear to shoulder.

 

The moment is brief, no more than half a second, but it hits him with a rush: he is attracted to Abigail Mills. Guilt and shame war with the desire that courses through him and Ichabod hurries to look away. He is a married man, for God’s sake! And still very much in love with his wife, his beloved Katrina.

 

But it has been so long since he has seen her, truly seen her, outside of the dreams where she comes to him with dire warnings, where he wakes and cannot recall her face. And Miss Abigail Mills is very much real and present in his daily life in a way Katrina never was, not even in the nascent days of their marriage.

 

Ichabod stifles the groan that builds up in his throat. He feels almost sick with betrayal. What is he going to do?

 

Something in his demeanor must have given hint to his distress, for Miss Mills looks in his direction. “Alright over there, Crane?”

 

Ichabod feels the heat rise to his cheeks as he meets her worried gaze, dark eyes concerned beneath furrowed brows. “Fine, fine, perfectly fine,” he says in an awkward rush. “Shall I go and get us a coffee?” He gets up before he can hear her answer. It’s all he can do to get away from her. He is too exposed, his realization too new to hide from Miss Mills’ penetrating gaze. He has the presence of mind to grab the two mugs from Miss Mills’ desk and tries not to slosh the cold remnants of their earlier cups over his wrists.

 

When the distance from the desk to the break room is safely between him and Miss Mills, Ichabod has a chance to breathe, to process what’s just happened to him. How could he have not seen this coming? All the signs were there and he stumbled past them like a buffoon. His fascination with her, how he cannot stop staring, the way he anticipates their time spent together, even in the direst of situations – he has been blind to the sum of their parts. But, now the whole picture has been uncovered and Ichabod is left scrambling for solid ground.

 

He takes a deep breath and forces the tightness of his rib cage to loosen. It would not do to sound out of breath in Miss Mills’ presence. That would raise her suspicion, he’s sure. She need never know, he thinks as he prepares her coffee – a splash of cream, no sugar – no doubt she thinks of him as no more than a friend.

 

The thought of his unreturned affection is the only thing strong enough to tamp down the heat that races through him. He wishes the thought didn’t fill him with hollow sadness, but it is enough for him to start building a barrier to protect his new revelation from prying eyes.

 

He realizes he has lingered too long in the break room and picks up the mugs by the handles to start his way back to the desk, only to freeze once more at the entrance to the bullpen.

 

Miss Mills stands by her desk with the receiver to the telephone pressed to her ear. Ichabod wonders why she is standing, but he’s too caught up in the vision of her to give it much thought. She faces away from him, hand not holding the receiver gripping the edge of her desk. Her weight rests on one foot, causing her hip to jut out beneath tight trousers. Ichabod’s mouth goes dry at the exaggerated curve that extends from inward dip of her waist to the tapering of her upper thigh and he grits his teeth to make sure his jaw isn’t hanging open like a simpleton.

 

He desires to plant his hands around her waist and trace the curves so deliciously displayed in front of him. How do men in this era get anything done, with so many enticing sights around them? It’s amazing he hasn’t consciously noted Miss Mills’ stunning attractiveness before.

 

Ichabod realizes he is openly staring and stands straighter in chastisement.  _You are a married man and you will comport yourself as a gentleman_ , he tells himself. He may have begun adapting to his new era, what with the modern trousers with strange fastenings and short boots that he wears to mimic his previous styling (the coat and the hair stay, no matter how many exasperated sighs Miss Mills gives him), but he will be damned if he compromises on his principles.

 

Ichabod resumes his walk back to the desk. “Here you are, Lieutenant,” he says in announcement.

 

Miss Mills turns at the sound of his voice and the smile she gives him as she takes the mug he holds out for her makes his heart skip a beat. She mouths her thanks and takes a sip. Ichabod takes a drink of his own coffee to mask the groan that bubbles up at the way she licks her lips at the droplets of coffee that get left behind and finds himself wishing for a shot of sorely needed whisky to pour into his mug.

 

Averting the Apocalypse just became a lot more difficult.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Abbie's POV** _

 

Ichabod Crane’s a tall, glass of water, and while Abbie’s not parched, she certainly wouldn’t mind taking a long drink.

 

But, he’s also very British, very annoying, and, oh, did she also mention very married? 

 

So, yeah, Abbie Mills isn’t getting on that ride any time soon.  Which is fine.  The view’s just as pretty.

 

Besides, if she’s going to have to hold back the Apocalypse, at least the Higher Powers gave her something nice to look at to contrast all the ugly, demonic evils that she finds herself surrounded by and fighting against.

 

And Crane makes a good partner, though it’s taken her a while to admit it.  Once she gets past his old-fashioned sensibilities – which are oh-so fun to tease him about – Abbie finds she can rely on him, which is rare for her.  Sure, he insists on opening doors for her, and pulling out her chair, and holding back obstacles so they don’t disturb her until Abbie wants to sit Ichabod down and give him a lesson on women’s lib.  But, he’s smart and resourceful and loyal to a fucking fault.  So, it balances.

 

And, though Abbie may not like admitting it, a small part of her likes the small courtesies Ichabod extends to her.  It’s kinda nice having a man around who respects her, but still treats her like a lady.  She didn’t realize how much she liked it until Ichabod showed up and now, all she can do is compare him to every other man that crosses her path.

 

Ichabod Crane: ruining other men for ladies everywhere since the 18th century.

 

Time goes on, their struggles continue, and Ichabod’s quirks have become less annoying and more endearing.  Abbie begins to feel her heart race when he holds out a hand to help her out of her seat, or when he stares at her with that intent gaze of his.  She knows herself well enough to know that she’s falling for her partner – her _married_ partner – and she also knows that he can never find out.  The most harmless of things get Ichabod all kinds of flustered, it seems, and Abbie just knows the awkwardness that’ll sit between them like a demonic elephant will get him stammering and shifty-eyed and then the Apocalypse will come because working together will become too uncomfortable and no thank you, not while Abbie’s in charge.  She’s no stranger to burying things so deep where no one can ever find them, not even Crane with his uncanny way of seeing straight down into her soul. 

 

And so she does.  She pretends not to notice the way he smiles at her when she makes a joke he finds clever, all sparkling eyes and soft lips.  Or the way he fills out the new clothes she got him, the ones that make him look like a hipster professor with an ass she could bounce a quarter off of.  Or the way he holds things, with long delicate fingers that she only thinks about late at night when she’s in the safety of her bed (she thinks about them touching her, caressing her, _inside_ of her, his beard tickling her shoulder as he sucks on her collarbone, and, god, it gets her off faster than anything ever has). 

 

She pretends to remember that he’s married and hates herself a little for forgetting it.  She’d never want to be the Other Woman, especially not when she’s met his wife a couple of times in that weird dream-world-between-world place and actually kinda likes her.  Katrina is beautiful and proper, for all that she’s an actual witch, and Abbie can see why Ichabod fell for her.  The regret that goes with the thought helps temper the feelings for Ichabod that grow by the day and gives Abbie something to clamp onto, to steady her hand and keep her in check.  It surprises her how often she finds herself reaching for him before she can remember to stop, how his given name always burns on her tongue when she addresses him by his last name, and how the thought of losing him, sends her heart racing and a cold sweat trickling down her spine.

 

But, gradually, it becomes her new reality, and hiding her feelings from Ichabod while working alongside him is just the kind of high-wire act she excels at.  And it doesn’t hurt that she cares about him as a friend to help her with that fine balancing act.

 

So, when she begins to notice his behavior turn for the weird, it’s the friend side of her that reacts first.  Ichabod begins getting flustered at nothing it seems.  Abbie’s started looking over her shoulder to see if some skank’s walking past showing miles of leg or something.  Then he starts turning clumsy, fumbling with things that he once handled with grace.

 

“You alright?” she asks one day in late March, 7 months since they started working together to save the world.  “You’ve been kinda twitchy lately.”  They’re in the car, so he can’t excuse himself if the question makes him too uncomfortable.

 

Abbie looks at him out of the corner of her eye as she drives him home at the end of the day.  Ichabod shifts in his seat and she smiles.  She knows the sign of Ichabod’s ruffled feathers.   He crosses his arms over his chest before he speaks.  “I have not been ‘kinda twitchy’.”  The way he pauses before repeating her words with an emphasis that speaks of how much he disagrees with her word choice makes Abbie smile even wider.

 

“If you say so,” Abbie says.  “But you can’t hide from me, Crane.  Something’s up with you.”

 

That earns Abbie another squirm and she lets out a small laugh.  “Does my bearing amuse you, Miss Mills?” Ichabod asks as he looks over at her.  His tone is arch, but there’s a hint of something shy behind it.

 

Abbie immediately feels like a heel.  “Sorry,” she says and means it.  “I am worried about you, though.”

 

“I beg you to not,” Ichabod says.  “It has simply been a long day and I am in need of rest.”

 

It’s been a long _week_ , is more like it, Abbie thinks.  There was a wendigo, of all fucking things, that they only killed off earlier this morning, just in time to show up for Abbie’s shift at the station.  The two of them are running on fumes and caffeine.  So Abbie lets him off the hook for the moment, but she’s not going to let this go.

 

“Something’s up with him,” she confesses to Jenny a week later.  Jenny’s in town, hanging around for a few weeks to see if anything dire comes up before she goes off again to try and find more allies for their fight against Moloch.

 

The two sisters are at a Red Robin – because who doesn’t love bottomless fries – and Jenny pauses with her burger halfway to her mouth.  “You’re kidding, right?”

 

Abbie gives her little sister a look.  “Does it look like I’m kidding?  I’m being serious, here.  Something’s got Crane all antsy and I’m starting to worry about him.”

 

Jenny returns Abbie’s look with a flat stare.  “Abbie, he has the hots for you.”

 

That has Abbie’s eyebrows shooting for her hairline.  “Excuse me?”

 

Jenny scoffs.  “You heard me.  He has the hots for you and he feels guilty because you guys are still trying to get his wife out of wherever she is.”  She takes her bite of her burger and smiles around the mouthful.

 

Abbie opens and closes her mouth a couple of times before she finds words to respond.  “He does not.  He doesn’t.  Does he?”  She looks away to dip a fry in ranch dressing before popping it into her mouth.

 

Jenny smiles.  “Oh my god, you have the hots for him, too!”

 

Having it said like that brings a hot flush to Abbie’s cheeks.  “Hey, keep it down, will ya?” she hisses and looks around like she expects Ichabod to be standing behind her.  It’d be her luck, really.

 

“I don’t envy you,” Jenny says, unhushed, like Abbie isn’t panicking in front of her.  “I mean, he’s married, so that sucks.  But Abbie, the way he looks at you?  Any woman would be so lucky.”

 

When they get back to her place, Jenny bids Abbie good night before slipping into the guest room, leaving Abbie alone out in the living room, feeling cast adrift with what Jenny told her.

 

It’s not true, Abbie tells herself as she gets ready for bed.  “It can’t be,” she whispers.  Ichabod’s in love with his wife, she knows this.  She can’t think anything differently.  To think otherwise is filled with a hope Abbie doesn’t dare let herself feel. 


	3. Chapter 3

**_Ichabod's_ _POV_   
**

 

At first, Ichabod reasons that acknowledging his attraction to Abbie – he’s taken to calling her by her given name in his thoughts – will help him prevent the feeling from deepening. 

 

He really should have known the folly of that line of thinking.

 

The more time he spends in Abbie’s presence, the more he finds to admire about her.  The way she wrinkles her nose when she’s trying to hold back a smile at one of his witticisms makes him want to cheer when he elicits it.  And he cannot help but love the surprised twinkle in her eye when he extends to her any sort of courtesy.  It saddens him to think that such surprise must come from a lifetime of substandard suitors, but Ichabod takes pride, too much of it, perhaps, that he can please and impress Abbie so.

 

And, yet, the more his feelings for his partner grow, so does his guilt by equal measure.  The facts in this case are clear: he is still bound to Katrina while there is at least the smallest possibility of rescuing her from the Purgatory in which she is trapped.  And he still cares for Katrina and misses her every day, though the ache lessens with moment that passes.

 

So Ichabod is caught between two extremes, the joy of being in Abbie’s presence and the guilt of his betrayal to his wife.  He has always considered himself to be an honorable man and to be conflicted in such a way tears against the grain of that honor.  In his lowest moments when the strain of it is too much, Ichabod wishes he’d never woken up from his grave at all.  But then he remembers his Higher Purpose and it renews him until the mood passes.

 

To his relief, Abbie treats him as she ever has: a friend and a comrade-in-arms in the fight against the Apocalypse.  If he ever suspected she returned his feelings, Ichabod knows he may not be able to hold himself back from openly courting Abbie and proving himself to be the worst kind of cad: an adulterer.

 

The stress of his conflicting emotions wears heavy on Ichabod and the tension that brews in the air does not provide any favors.

 

It is June, nearly 9 months since Ichabod woke up in the year 2013.  In a week, it will be the summer solstice and Ichabod and Abbie have it on good authority that Moloch is planning something to coincide with that day, when the amount of supernatural power will be at one of its yearly peaks.

 

With Abbie and Miss Jenny in the midst of final preparations, Ichabod feels like nothing more than an interloper and the knowing looks Miss Jenny gives him whenever she catches him looking at her sister unnerve him every time.  So Ichabod excuses himself from the Armory where the two sisters are knee-deep in cataloging weapons and magical artifacts and heads outside.  He hopes a walk will clear his head.

 

The mid-June air is humid and Ichabod feels the sweat begin to bead on his skin beneath his shirt and coat as he walks down the street.  He is aimless, walking nowhere in particular, simply moving to keep from collapsing beneath the weight of his thoughts.

 

A half an hour later, Ichabod finds himself in front of a church, and a Catholic one, no less.  He is not particularly religious – to be sure, he was raised in the Anglican faith like all good men of breeding, but reason has always been his guiding light, not something he could neither see nor touch.  The turns his life have taken have forced him to reconsider what he once thought superstitious and so instead of walking past, Ichabod finds himself on the path leading to the church’s steps.

 

Ichabod pauses before he ascends to the front doors.  The church is small, yet majestic still.  He is used to the grand cathedrals of the continent – Notre Dame, Cologne, and the like – but there is something appealing about this edifice that draws him inward.

 

The inside is stained glass windows and wooden pews, a large crucifix hanging over the apse, and vaulted ceilings that swallow the sounds of his footsteps.  Ichabod feels more at ease, there on hallowed ground, than he has in some time.  He sits down in the front pew and folds his hands in his lap.

 

The urge to pray to a God he doesn’t know if he entirely believes in is strong, and Ichabod is so very in need of guidance.

 

The sound of footsteps draws Ichabod’s attention up from his folded hands and he sees the church’s priest approaching.  The man is perhaps in his late 40s, older than Ichabod – well, older only depending on one’s definition of living – and is dressed in the black vestments and white collar of his order.  Ichabod is distantly amused that black trousers and a black button-down shirt have been substituted for what once was black robes.  It appears not even the church is immune to forward progress.

 

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” the priest says, his voice calmly pitched from what must be years of practice of tending to his flock.

 

“You do not disturb me, Father,” Ichabod says.  “I merely came in here seeking solace and guidance, two things which are very much lacking in my life of late.”

 

The priest sits down next to Ichabod and angles his body to face him.  “What disturbs you, my son?”

 

Discomfort immediately skitters up the back of Ichabod’s neck.  “Oh, I am not baptized, Father.”

 

The priest’s smile cuts through Ichabod’s discomfort.  “Nobody’s perfect,” he says and the sheer honesty in the man’s voice compels Ichabod to speak.

 

Ichabod looks down to his folded hands and takes in a deep breath before speaking words he’s not dared breathe aloud before.  “I fear I am in danger of betraying my matrimonial vows, Father.”  Ichabod glances out the corner of his eye and sees the priest wave a hand in a gesture to continue.  “I’ve fallen in love with another woman of my acquaintance.”

 

“I see,” the priest says.  From the even tone of the priest’s voice, Ichabod cannot tell how harshly he is being judged.  “How long has this been going on?”

 

Ichabod sighs.  “Near on a year.  I did not mean for it to happen.  I feel I am the worst sort of man, but I cannot deny that I feel strongly about Abbie in a way I have never felt about Katrina.  And I know not how to reconcile my feelings.  My friendship with Abbie is something I do not feel I could live without, but I do not know if I can be near her without hurting Katrina in the process.”

 

“And does Abbie return your feelings?”

 

“I do not believe so,” Ichabod says, letting out a pitying chuckle in the process.  “No, she looks upon me as a friend, nothing more.  This struggle is mine and mine alone.”

 

“And your wife?  Does she suspect?”

 

The thought of Katrina knowing about Abbie clenches Ichabod’s heart in a way that makes it difficult to breathe.  “No.  Katrina and I have been…apart for some time.  She does not suspect my infidelity, I am sure.”

 

The priest is silent for a few moments.  “The vow of matrimony is a sacred one.  You promised your wife, Katrina, undying love and fidelity.”

 

Sharp anger unfolds within Ichabod.  “The vows of matrimony also speak of honesty, do they not?  If that is the case, then both Katrina and I are sinners.”

 

“She has been dishonest with you, then.”

 

Ichabod nods.  “She did not disclose her true nature to me before we spoke our vows.  It was not until we were separated that I discovered her true nature.”

 

“And how did that make you feel?”

 

“I still do not know,” Ichabod says.  “I know the bible preaches forgiveness, but I fear such a feat is outside my reach.”

 

“God does not demand perfection, my son,” the priest says.  “He simply asks you to be honest with yourself and be honest with those you care about.  Practice the art of forgiveness.  Admit your sins and repent for them.  There is nothing more you can do.”

 

The words are not what Ichabod wanted to hear, but he smiles at them anyway.  “Thank you, Father.”

 

The priest stands and makes to walk away, but pauses and places a hand on Ichabod’s shoulder, instead.  “I pray you find the peace you seek.  The road ahead of you will not be easy.  Go with God, my son.  Go with God and he will lead you to the answers you need.”  The priest walks away and leaves Ichabod alone once more.

 

Ichabod looks up at the crucifix, at the image of Jesus hanging from the cross.  _Is this what you died for?  So your Witness to the End Times could live trapped between his desires and his duty?_  

 

Then Abbie’s voice sounds in his head.  _Don’t worry about things you can’t control, Crane.  That’s just inviting trouble you can’t afford_.  Regardless of the emotional tempest that surrounds him still, Ichabod smiles.  Even when she’s not with him, Abbie comforts him.  Somewhere along the way, his conscience adopted her voice.

 

Ichabod sighs and stand from the pew to begin making his way out of the church.  He may never be able to change the way he feels about Abbie, no matter how much he still loves Katrina.  He also may never be able to free Katrina from the Purgatory she’s trapped in.  Whatever happens in the coming days, Ichabod knows now that there is no point in worrying what the future will bring until it is at his doorstep. 

 

He just wishes he knew what he _wanted_ to happen.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Abbie's POV_ **

****

The world will never know how close it came to ending on June 21st, 2014.  And Abbie’s not sure if she can keep doing this for another 6 plus years.

 

The wreckage of the battle in the forest lies all around them.  Abbie takes a moment to catalog her injuries while she catches her breath.  She immediately winces when she draws air deeper into her lungs.  Right, cracked ribs.  Excellent.  Abbie moves on, noting the gash on the outside of her upper thigh and the claw marks on her forearms.  Looks like she’s wearing long sleeves for a few weeks.  And in July.  Just fucking great.

 

With her own injuries noted, Abbie looks around the battlefield, heart in her throat, for Jenny and Ichabod.  On the other side of the forest clearing, Abbie spots Jenny leaning against a tree.  Jenny gives her a thumb’s up and a weak smile, but otherwise makes no move away from the tree.

 

Jenny’s accounted for and Abbie looks around for Ichabod.  She almost panics for a moment when she can’t find him.  Oh god, he can’t be dead, he just can’t….

 

Then, the smoke clears from the center of the battlefield and Abbie spots him, kneeling on the ground.  Ichabod’s covered in soot and the ground around him is burnt and cracked. 

 

Abbie approaches him with caution.  There’s something about the curve of his shoulders that sets off warning bells in her mind.  “Crane?” she asks when she’s close enough.  She edges around him so she can see his face.  The look she finds there is an empty one, numbed and shocked.  Despite the pain in her leg and ribs, Abbie kneels on the ground in front of him.  She hesitates for a moment before reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder.  “Ichabod,” she says in a rare use of his given name.  “What happened?”  She makes sure to keep her voice soft.  She doesn’t want to shock him more than he already is.

 

It takes a couple of seconds for Ichabod to respond, but he raises his head to look at her.  Abbie gasps at the look in his eyes.  Edging around the shock, she sees the beginnings of sorrow, deep and cutting, boring into her.  “I-I do not know,” he says just above a whisper.  His voice is hoarse, like he’s been screaming.

 

Abbie really wishes they hadn’t gotten separated in the heat of battle because she’s not sure how coherent Ichabod’s going to be right now.  “Ichabod….”

 

Now that he’s focusing on her, her use of his given name seems to jolt him.  Into what, Abbie doesn’t know.  “Katrina.  She – Moloch was close to success and she did _something_ , a spell.  She said it was the only way, that she could not let the demon go free when she had the power to stop him.  She said Moloch drew power from her and that if she could sever their connection, his efforts would be thwarted.  I knew what she meant, but I could not stop her.”  Ichabod pauses and he looks down at the ground, slack-jawed.  “She is gone, Abbie, lost to me forever.”

 

Abbie feels the words like a punch to the chest, hearing him use her first name notwithstanding.  And before she can say anything, Ichabod leans forward and rests his forehead against her shoulder.  Abbie freezes, unsure what to do, as Ichabod grabs her upper arms and fists the fabric of her sleeves in his hands.  After a moment, Abbie realizes that his shoulders are shaking and, even though no tears soak through her shirt, he is sobbing.  Slowly, she leans into him to keep from letting his weight push her to the ground and her arms come up around him in return.

 

Out of the corner of her eye, Abbie notices Jenny coming up to them.  She’s grateful when Jenny says nothing, but just kneels next to them and lets Ichabod have his moment.

 

Katrina’s dead, her soul lost, sacrificed to keep Moloch from having his victory this day.  Abbie doesn’t know how to feel about that.  She never got the chance to get to know Katrina very well, so most of the sadness she feels is for how lost and broken Ichabod is.  But a tiny part of her, a very tiny, tiny part, but still notable, is glad that she’s not lusting after a married man anymore.  It makes Abbie feel sick that she thinks that – like what kind of horrible person thinks that when her best friend is inconsolable from the loss of his wife?  So Abbie ignores it and folds the shameful feeling into the same pocket where she keeps her feelings for Ichabod most of the time.

 

Abbie ignores the strain in her ribs from holding Ichabod up right and when she feels him begin to slump even further against her, she turns and looks at Jenny.  “Help me get him up,” she says in a quiet voice.

 

Jenny comes over and, with a gentle touch Abbie wouldn’t normally think her capable of, wraps her hands around Ichabod’s upper right arm.  To his credit, Ichabod only lets out a low groan and lifts his weight off from Abbie enough so she can get up and grab his left arm.  It speaks to how exhausted and shell-shocked he is that he doesn’t even bother with his usual, flustering apologies.

 

Eventually, Jenny and Abbie get Ichabod back to the cabin and into bed.  With Ichabod tucked in, Jenny and Abbie begin the task of tending to their wounds out in the living room.  “Pants off,” Jenny says, eyeing the nasty wound on Abbie’s leg.

 

“What about you?” Abbie asks.  She kicks off her sturdy hiking boots, the best thing she could think of to wear for averting the Apocalypse, before working on the fly of her ruined jeans.

 

“Mostly scratches.  Sprained my knee, I think, close to the end there.  Saw you go up against some sort of hellhound.”

 

Abbie snorts before she winces at the feel of denim stiff with blood pulling away from a swollen wound.  And she can’t help the little whimper of pain that escapes as she lifts her leg to push her jeans the rest of the way down.  She shoots Jenny a look.  “Some sort of, is right,” she says.  “Scratched up my arms pretty bad and one of its talons gave me this thing on my leg.”  “This thing” turns out to be a 3 inch long gash that’s covered in dirt and coagulated blood and a little ragged around the edges.

 

Jenny winces as she sits on a small stepstool next to where Abbie sits on the one the couch, clad in nothing more than her tee shirt, socks, and panties.  “This is gonna leave a nasty scar.”

 

Abbie looks down at her right leg and sighs.  “Yeah, I figured.  Guess my bikini days are over.”

 

That earns Abbie a grin and a raised eyebrow.  “Have you ever had any bikini days?”

 

Abbie chuckles a little.  “Not really.”

 

“Then you’re not missing anything.”

 

Abbie’s eyes water as Jenny cleans the muck out of her wound and she looks away when Jenny pulls out a needle and thread.  “You have done this before, right?”  She wishes she could keep the tremble out of her voice, but she’s not looking forward to what’s about to happen.

 

“I know what I’m doing,” Jenny says.  Moments later, Jenny’s pushing the needle through Abbie’s flesh and Abbie grips the edge of the sofa cushion so hard, she’s surprised she’s not cutting holes into it in the shape of her fingernails.  The endorphins hit and the pain settles to a cringing buzz.  This is when Jenny chooses to speak again.  “So, what happened to Crane?”

 

The question brings a hitch to Abbie’s breath and her injured ribs scream in response.  “His wife is gone.  Sacrificed herself to stop Moloch.  Ichabod wasn’t overflowing with details, but it’s clear he saw it happen.”

 

Jenny looks up at Abbie with one raised eyebrow.  “So, she’s-”

 

“Dead, gone forever,” Abbie says.

 

There’s a pause, a telling one.  “Man, that sucks,” Jenny says with a shake of her head.  “How do you feel about that?”

 

“Sad?” Abbie sighs.  “I think…I dunno.”  She looks over at the closed door to the bedroom, where Ichabod’s hopefully sleeping.  “I don’t feel like a good person, right now.”

 

Thankfully, Jenny understands.  “Give it time,” she says.  “Everything’ll work out.”

 

Together, they finish patching each other up.  Abbie hands Jenny the keys to her car.  “Could you get my duffle out of the trunk?  I have some spare clothes in there.”

 

“Sure thing,” Jenny says. 

 

And when Jenny returns with a black duffle and tries to give Abbie back her keys, Abbie shakes her head.  “Nah, you take them.  You can crash at my place.”

 

Jenny cocks her head to one side.  “What about you?” she asks.

 

“I’m going to stay here,” Abbie said, jerking her head in the direction of Ichabod’s bedroom.  “In case he needs anything.  Besides, I don’t know if he’s up to making himself food.”

 

“All right,” Jenny says with a smile.  “Thanks.”

 

Before Jenny can move to walk away, Abbie steps forward and engulfs her little sister in a hug.  She waits until Jenny hugs her back and is aware that they’re both trembling.  “I love you, Jenny-bean.”

 

Jenny’s breath hitches and Abbie just holds her tighter.  “I love you too, Abbster.”  Nicknames their mom gave them when they were kids make her feel closer to her sister than ever and all Abbie knows is that she never wants to let Jenny get so far away again.

 

They stay like that for several moments, clinging to each other before, as if by telepathy, they pull apart.  “See you tomorrow?” Jenny asks.

 

Abbie notices, but pretends not to, the glassy sheen in Jenny’s eyes; she’s sure her own eyes are suspiciously shiny as well.  “Yeah, not too early, though.  Noon?”

 

Jenny nods.  “Sure.”

 

When Jenny’s gone, Abbie pulls a pair of grey sweats out of her duffle and slips them on, careful of the large bandage on her thigh.  She grabs a large afghan off the back of an armchair and curls up beneath it on the couch, careful not to jostle her ribs too much.  Her eyes slip shut.  God, she’s tired.  The sun’s not entirely set yet, but Abbie feels like she could sleep for years.

 

The feel of tears curling down her cheek and soaking the pillow is what alerts Abbie that she’s crying.  The realization breaks the floodgates and Abbie has to bury her face in the pillow to muffle her sobs.  She can’t stop shaking and can’t keep her emotions on an even keel. 

 

Her crying slows and her head pounds, her throat sore, but Abbie stays put. 

 

Eventually, she falls asleep, face still half buried in the pillow, wondering what tomorrow is going to bring.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Ichabod's POV** _

 

In the immediate months that follow Katrina’s demise, Ichabod’s life distills to one simple dichotomy: good days and bad days.

 

On the good days, he can remember his wife with minimal pain, a vague ache in his heart that is tinged with guilt and possibilities unfulfilled.  On those days, he can smile, and laugh, and enjoy the company of others.

 

The bad days are blurs, filled with lost time.  He feels as if part of him has been removed and he is left, severed, to roam the Earth so cleaved. 

 

In the beginning, there are no good days.  It takes two weeks before he has his first one and almost two months before he needs more than two hands to count how many he has had consecutively. 

 

Ichabod’s touchstone throughout his ordeal, the one certainty he relies on to get through each day, both good and bad, is Abbie’s presence.  She seems to have developed a form of mind reading around him, for she always seems to know when to leave him be or when the company of another person will be at the very least tolerable to him.

 

Abbie takes care of Ichabod in the immediate aftermath of the battle, staying with him at the cabin, ensuring he eats, and being present to sooth any wild flux of emotion as he grieves.  She lets him cling to her when the grieving is the strongest, when Ichabod is at his weakest against his loss and she knows just how to distract him when he is suffused with melancholy.  If possible, they spend more time together than they did before the solstice battle.  Ichabod marvels at how seamlessly Abbie moves in and through his life and he can almost barely remember a time when he didn’t know her, she’s become so integral to him.  And, most of all, he loves her more now than ever.

 

In the early days of his grief, the only secret Ichabod keeps hidden from Abbie is how he feels for her and his continuing confliction between honoring Katrina’s memory and his desires.  The thought that he is being punished for betraying his wife by falling in love with another woman occurs to him and for a couple of days, Ichabod believes it.  But he eventually succumbs to reason.  Katrina sacrificed herself to save him.  Ichabod remembers the apology in Katrina’s eyes before she did the spell to sever her power from Moloch’s.  She did not do it to punish him, of this he is sure.

 

So, after the first couple of weeks, Ichabod settles into mourning.  For close to two months, he wears mostly black, as would have been custom in his era, and he learns to live with the ache of the loss of Katrina that he is sure will be with him for the remainder of his days.  And he begins to look on the future with renewed hope, for his relationship with Abbie is stronger than ever.

 

It is the end of August.  A little more than two months have passed since the solstice battle and the forces of evil have been suspiciously quiet throughout the summer.  Abbie and Ichabod are enjoying a quiet evening in the old Armory, cataloging the resources and books on the occult over a meal of Chinese take-out.  Ichabod still has a difficult time using the infernal chopsticks the restaurant provides, but the smile on Abbie’s face as she teases him light-heartedly for the way he fumbles with two simple sticks of wood make it worthwhile.

 

Ichabod looks across the table at Abbie, who’s paging through a leather bound book that’s even older than he is, and he cannot bear to be silent any longer.  “Abbie, might I have a word with you for a moment?  Of a personal nature?”  He’s been using her given name since his mourning began.  She’s seen too much of him to be kept at such formal lengths.  In public, of course, she’s still “Miss Mills” or “Lieutenant”, but in private Ichabod feels he can take more liberties.

 

His tone must have put her on guard, because Abbie looks up at him with both concern and confusion.  “Of course.  What’s up?  Everything ok?”

 

Ichabod’s fluency in modern vernacular increases everyday and it no longer gives him pause.  “I wish to extend my gratitude for all you have done for me over the past weeks.  I truly do not know what I would have done if you had not been there in my time of need.”

 

The expression on Abbie’s face relaxes and she gives him a soft smile that warms his heart.  She reaches across and gives his hand a squeeze.  The warmth in his heart turns into a skipped beat at her touch.  “Don’t mention it,” she says.  “Besides, what are friends for?”

 

Ichabod smiles in return, but it feels anemic.  Yes, of course.  Friends.  “Still, there must be some way I can repay your kindness.”

 

Abbie’s smile turns cheeky.  “Let me have the last pot sticker and we’ll call it even,” she says with a wink that threatens to make Ichabod blush.

 

Ichabod decides to go along with the light-hearted turn his serious conversation had taken.  “Consider it my boon to you, then.”  The moment passes, but Ichabod lets it linger for a silent half a second longer.  She considers them friends, then.  He will not dismiss such closeness for anything.  But, by God, does he wish for something more.

 

 

  _ **Abbie's POV**_

 

It’s almost the anniversary of Ichabod’s resurrection – Abbie wishes she didn’t think of it in those terms, because with the hair and the beard, she can almost compare him to Jesus and she is _so_ not going there if she can help it.  But it’s been almost a year since he woke up in that dank cave and it hasn’t been an easy time for him.  From adjusting to the 21 st century, to fighting against nightmare forces, to losing his beloved wife, if anyone deserves to have something go right with his life, it’s Ichabod Crane.

 

Abbie wants to do something for him, something nice to commemorate the event and give him a break, but she doesn’t know what.  It plagues her for days that she can’t think of anything and as the calendar gets closer and closer to the actual date, Abbie begins to panic.

 

And then, a week before the anniversary, she’s flipping through the newspaper and an ad in the Arts section grabs her attention.  Abbie’s breath catches and she smiles.  She’s just had the most brilliant idea and Ichabod is just going to love it.

 


	6. Chapter 6

_**Jenny's POV  
** _

__

When Jenny first meets Ichabod Crane, she thinks he’s cute, but mostly she’s confused by him.  The way he speaks and holds himself, so upright and proper, are not things she expects to be confronted by in her cell in the mental institution.

 

The second time she meets him and she learns he’s been asleep for almost 250 years, that he was an actual soldier during the Revolutionary War, of all things, Crane begins to make sense to Jenny.  And she still thinks he’s cute.  But she can see the way he looks at Abbie – of course big sis has all the luck – and even though he’s married, Jenny _knows_. 

 

Still, Jenny can’t deny that Crane’s life is filled with more tragedy than not, especially after Katrina’s death.  So, when Abbie comes to her with an idea to celebrate Crane’s first year in the 21st century, Jenny’s glad to help.  Crane’s a good man, smart and respectful, but also a little snarky in a way that Jenny can’t help but enjoy.

 

The anniversary of Crane’s 21st century awakening is a couple of weeks behind them on the day Jenny’s getting out of her car and heading up to the front door of Corbin’s old cabin where Crane’s been living.  The thought of Corbin, the man who believed her when no one else did, pulls at a wound that still hasn’t healed all the way.  But Jenny likes to think that Corbin would appreciate his cabin being used to support the good fight.

 

Abbie’s in the middle of her own preparations, so it’s up to Jenny to make sure Crane’s good to go.  She stops in front of the door and pounds the butt of her fist against it.  Jenny’s never had any use for being delicate and damn if she’s going to start now.

 

The door opens a handful of moments later, revealing Crane wearing his usual confused and curious look, but there’s a hint of expectation to it that has Jenny smiling.  The wrong Mills sister came a’knocking.  Crane’s face relaxes into a polite smile.  “Ah, Miss Jenny.  I was not expecting you.”

 

Jenny spreads her hands.  “Surprise!” she says, an eyebrow rising in humor.

 

Crane steps aside, holding the door open.  “Would you like to come in?”

 

“Nope,” Jenny says, popping the “p”.  “I’m afraid you’re coming with me.”

 

And the curious and confused look is back.  It’s a good thing “lost puppy” works so well on the man’s face.  “Has something happened?”

 

Jenny shakes her head.  “Not yet.”  She reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a slim envelope.  “Here, I think this will explain things.” 

 

Crane looks down at the envelope, but doesn’t open it yet.  “Give me just one moment.  I’ll grab my coat.”  He reappears moment later with the same coat he’s been wearing for a year, the same one he was buried in.  It’s getting ratty and worn around the edges.  Jenny has to bite her tongue to keep from spilling the other surprise that she and Abbie have for him, a replica coat they’re having made for him as a Christmas present.

 

“Ready?” Jenny asks.

 

“Yes, please proceed,” Crane says as he closes the door behind him.

 

They’re in the car and on the road before Crane opens the envelope Jenny handed him.  Jenny looks at him out of the corner of her eye while he reads the letter from Abbie inside.  She can’t help the smile that curls up her lips as he reads it a second time, his face softening.  She knows what’s in the letter, and what Abbie has planned, and while she’s glad she’s not going along with them, the schmoopy look on Crane’s face makes participating in this totally worth it.

 

“Truly a wonder,” Crane says under his breath, but in the silence of the car, broken only by the low purr of the engine, Jenny can hear the soft words.  “Did you know of her intentions for this evening?”

 

Jenny gives him a quick smile.  “Yeah.  She wanted to do something nice for you and this seemed like something you’d like.  Just don’t go telling anyone Abbie’s secret.  She’s a little touchy about it and the guys at the station probably wouldn’t let her live it down.”

 

“It will go with me to my grave,” Crane says before he smiles.  “At least, my second one.”

 

Jenny barks a laugh.  “That’s the spirit.”

 

“So, is that where we are headed, now?”

 

“Not yet,” Jenny says.  “First, we gotta get you a suit.”

 

Their destination is a men’s formal wear store in downtown Sleepy Hollow.  The proprietor is in his mid-30s, impeccably dressed, and French.  “How many I help you?” he asks in a noticeable accent.

 

“Yeah, we’re here to get him a tuxedo,” Jenny says as she points at Crane with her thumb.  “My sister, Abbie Mills, should have called to tell you that we were coming.”

 

The man nods.  “Of course, yes.  Miss Mills has arranged everything.”

 

“A tuxedo?” Crane asks and Jenny looks over at him to see the raised eyebrow.

 

The proprietor lights up at the sound of Crane’s voice.  “Ah, a man from across the Atlantic!  Where are you from?”

 

Crane looks at the man with a small smile.  “I hail from Oxford.  And yourself, sir?”

 

“Paris, of course.”  And then Crane starts speaking in fluent French, making the proprietor even more excited.  The two converse in French, and Jenny can’t stop looking at Crane.  Abbie confessed to her over a fifth of tequila one night that the sound of Crane speaking in tongues turns her on and Jenny can see why.  Because damn if the sound of Crane speaking a foreign language isn’t one of the sexiest things Jenny’s ever heard.

 

The proprietor leads Crane towards the fitting rooms, leaving Jenny behind.  “I’ll just…sit here, then,” she calls, but it might as well been to nobody, so she plops down in of the chairs by the door.  Great.  She knew she should have brought something to read.

 

A half an hour later, Jenny’s picking at the fraying hem of her jeans and praying for a supernatural ugly to burst through the door of the shop when she catches movement just at the edge of her vision.  She looks up and the shop’s proprietor is walking towards her with Crane’s 6 foot plus figure behind him.  “I hope this meets the madam’s expectations,” the proprietor says before he steps aside and Jenny is faced with a tuxedo clad Ichabod Crane.

 

Jenny’s really glad she’s mastered the art of keeping her face neutral because holy shit, Crane cleans up nice.  Like really nice.  The man’s body is practically made to wear a suit.  He’s all broad shoulders and long, lean lines and not even Jenny is immune to the effect.  She swallows before speaking.  “Looks good,” she manages to get out, not trusting herself say more in case it’s something stupid.  Crane eyes her, knowing there’s something she’s holding back, but Jenny ignores it.

 

“There are very minor alterations that will need to be done.  I can have them ready in 2 hours,” the proprietor says.

 

“Sounds fine to me,” Jenny says.

 

Crane follows the proprietor back into the fitting rooms and the second they’re out of sight, Jenny pulls her phone out of her pocket.  It’s a simple phone, good only for making calls and texting, and Jenny’s fingers dial Abbie’s number by heart.  “Hello?” Abbie says after she picks up.

 

“You’re a stronger woman than I give you credit for,” Jenny says.

 

“What happened?”

 

“Crane just walked out of the dressing room in a god damn tuxedo, is what happened.  I admire your restraint.  And the fact that you seem to get any kind of work done.”

 

Abbie sighs and Jenny can just see the look of suffering on her sister’s face through the phone line.  “Welcome to my damn world.”

 

“How goes your end?” Jenny asks.

 

“I’m finished running my errands and I’m about to head back to my place to start getting ready.”

 

“Wow, four hours early?”

 

“Hey, I don’t ever get the opportunity to do this.  I’m going to take advantage of it while I can.”

 

Jenny chuckles.  “More power to you, then.”  The two trade their goodbyes and hang up just in time for Crane to come out with the proprietor.  The men exchange goodbyes in French and Jenny drags Crane from the shop with the promise of returning in a couple of hours.

 

“Come on, let’s get something to eat,” she says as they walk to the car.  They have time to kill and Jenny’s hungry.  She takes him to the only decent taqueria in town – she craves the stands in Mexico City, with fresh tortilla and pico de gallo that makes her mouth sing the most wonderful song and varieties of meats she can’t get in New York – but it’s better than nothing. 

 

She orders for Crane, who has no idea what to make of the menu, and when their food comes, Jenny amuses herself by watching Crane try to eat tacos with a fork and knife.  Seems Tall, Dark, and Time Displaced still has some adjusting to do.

 

“I would share in your amusement, Miss Jenny,” Crane says.

 

“Even if you’re the source of that amusement?” she asks with an eyebrow raised.

 

There’s a pause before Crane speaks.  “Perhaps not, then.”

 

Jenny smiles.  “Good call.”

 

“Still, my thanks for the meal, as strange as it is.”

 

“Not a problem,” Jenny says with a shrug.

 

They’re finishing up, lingering over the last of the food to kill as much time as possible, when Jenny decides to bring something up with Crane.  “Hey, can I talk to you about something serious for a sec?”

 

Crane does that thing with his eyebrow where he’s totally judging her grammar, but is too much of a gentleman to say something about it.  “Of course, Miss Jenny.  I would hope our friendship has progressed to a point where you no longer feel the need to ask permission first.” 

 

Jenny will never admit to it out loud, but she loves it when Crane calls her “Miss Jenny”.  It’s like having a nickname that no one else is allowed to use.  But, she has something she wants to say.  “So, I’ve been doing some reading, mostly when I’m on the road, you know, and I’ve been learning a lot about what life was like back in your time.  Abbie and I are the only family we have left and I’ve been kinda waiting for you to come to me about this for about the past month or so, but I decided to jump the gun.”  Jenny takes a breath and checks to make sure Crane’s paying attention.  He is, a little too intently.  “I just wanted you to know that, whenever you get off your ass and start making a go at courting my sister?  You have my blessing.”

 

The man’s cheeks immediately go crimson.  “Miss Jenny – I mean – what makes-”

 

Jenny holds up a hand to cut him off.  “Look, you don’t have to say anything if it makes you uncomfortable, but do us both a favor by not pretending to have no idea what I’m talking about, ok?   Nod if you get me.”  Crane nods after a long moment and Jenny smiles.  “There, was that so hard?  Now, let’s go pick up your tux and get you back to the cabin so you can get ready for your evening out.” 

 


	7. Chapter 7

_**Ichabod's POV** _

__

The new clothes Abbie had purchased for him fit like nothing has for a long time.  The black fabric is expertly tailored, even if the cut of the cloth is not in the style of what he grew up accustomed to.  Still, Ichabod’s been in the 21st century long enough to know that what he wears is nearly the highest level of formal wear for the era.  He sits in the armchair near the door, his new overcoat draped across his knee, and fingers the letter Miss Jenny handed to him earlier that day.

 

Compulsion has Ichabod opening the letter once more.  Abbie’s looping script greets him and, for what must be the hundredth time that day, Ichabod reads the letter again.

 

“ _Ichabod.  It was over a year ago that you woke up to this new world and I know it hasn’t been easy for you.  It’s been a rough ride, with everything that’s happened.  So I wanted to do something for you, something you would enjoy and that would take your mind off of things, even if just for one night.  I guess I should start by explaining what I have planned and that requires telling you another secret of mine._

_“When I was a little girl, I would watch a lot of public television.  We didn’t have a lot of money, so whatever channels came on was what we watched.  One day, when I was about 6, a little before Christmas, I turned on the TV to the local PBS and they were showing “The Nutcracker”.  It’s a ballet, written in the late 1800s.  You know what ballet is, right?  It was around in your era, I think._

_“Anyway, I fell in love with the whole thing: the dancing, the music, the costumes, all of it.  For a long time, I wanted to be a ballerina, but we never had the money to afford to pay for classes.  But I would always watch ballet when they aired it on PBS.  And after I started working for the police, I saved money from my first paychecks and bought my first ticket to a live ballet performance – “The Nutcracker”, of course.  It was one of the most magical evenings of my life, so much better than watching it on TV._

_“That’s my secret: I love ballet.  And I wanted to share some of the magic of seeing a live performance with you.  I hope you’ll enjoy it.  You once told me about the operas you saw when you lived in England, but you never mentioned anything about ballet._

_“So, be ready by 5.  I’m having a car come by and pick you up a little after that.  See you tonight.  –Abbie”_

 

Every time Ichabod reads the letter, it’s like the first time all over again.  His heart beats and constricts in his chest, his palms go a little clammy, and he cannot help but smile.  But, mostly, he is overwhelmed with Abbie’s thoughtfulness.  He’d almost forgotten that it’s been a little over a year since he woke up to discover that it was 2013 and that over 230 years had passed him by.  That she would share something so close to her heart with him to mark the occasion is the most precious gift he could ever imagine receiving from her.

 

So he obliges her and gets ready with time to spare.  He’s dressed in the suit with all the accoutrements that goes with it, his hair is clean and tied back, and his beard is neatly trimmed.  It has been so long since he’s been so impeccable that the feeling is nearly a novel one.  And, so, now he waits, excitement causing the blood to course faster through his veins.

 

At 5 past the hour, Ichabod hears the sounds of a vehicle pulling up to the cabin and he stands to peer out the window.  In the dying light of the day, he can see the vehicle, black and perhaps a little larger than the police vehicle Abbie drives.  The vehicle parks and a man, the driver, gets out.  Ichabod steps away from the window and is at the door to open it when the driver knocks.

 

“Mr. Crane?” the man asks.  “I’ll be your driver this evening.  An Abigail Mills sent me.”

 

“Excellent, I’ve been expecting you,” Ichabod says.  He folds his overcoat across his arm and closes the door behind him.  “Lead on, good man.”

 

The driver gives him a look.  “Uh, sure.”  Ichabod follows the driver to the car, where the other man opens the rear, right-hand door for him.  “Slide on in, Mr. Crane.”

 

Ichabod does as instructed and the soft leather of the car’s backseat cradles him with ease.  With his seatbelt buckled, he waits for the driver to get in as well.

 

The driver’s starting the engine when Ichabod speaks up.  “Do we go to retrieve Miss Mills?” he asks.

 

“That’s our next stop,” the driver says.  The car rolls away and Ichabod is a bundle of anxious excitement.  He’s used to seeing Abbie every day, usually in some sort of evil-thwarting capacity, but he hasn’t seen her at all since the night before and they’re about to partake in a pleasant evening, free from the Apocalypse for a few hours.

 

It’s not long before the car pulls up in front of the building that houses Abbie’s apartment.  Before the driver can get out of the car, Ichabod speaks up.  “Shall I go fetch her, then?”

 

The driver looks over his shoulder at Ichabod.  “That’s what I figured, Mr. Crane.  Hold on just a sec.”  The driver gets out and jogs around the car to open the door for Ichabod.  Ichabod has to admit that receiving such service, while a luxury, is a nice change of pace.

 

Minutes later, Ichabod knocks on Abbie’s front door.  When it opens, Jenny’s standing on the other side.  “Well, long time, no see, handsome,” she says, looking him up and down.

 

Ichabod smiles at the easy sarcasm in Jenny’s voice.  “Good evening, Miss Jenny.  I trust I am on time.”

 

“Yeah, come on in.  Abbie’s still finishing up.”  Jenny closes the door behind Ichabod and walks further into the apartment.  “Hey, Abbie!” she yells out.  “Your date’s here!”

 

“I heard the damn knock!” Abbie yells back – from the direction of the bathroom, Ichabod figures.  “And it’s not a date!”

 

Jenny smiles over at Ichabod, the expression filled with teasing sweetness.  “She’s a little touchy.”

 

“Well, she would not be your sister if she was not a little bit…prickly,” Ichabod says.

 

“I heard that, Crane!” Abbie says, her voice sounding closer.

 

“My apologies, Miss Mills,” Ichabod says around a smile.

 

Abbie emerges from the hallway that leads away from the main living area.  She stops and smiles at him.  “Well, look at you all dressed up.  It’s a good look for you.  Give me just another minute to get my things together.”

 

Ichabod, meanwhile, has been struck dumb by the vision that is Abigail Mills.  Truly, he has never seen a more enchanting sight and he cannot take his eyes from her as she moves around her apartment. 

 

Abbie is sheathed in silken midnight.  The gown skims down her figure, accentuating each delectable curve and the rich color of the fabric brings out the dusky rose of her skin.  Her arms and one shoulder are bare; a ring of silver cinches the silk just above her right breast, causing the material to fan out as it hooks over her shoulder.  And her hair, normally pulled back, cascades down her bare shoulder in gentle waves.  Throughout the tenure of their acquaintance, Ichabod has never known Abbie to be one for rouges and face paints, but she has used them tonight with devastating effect: enough to accent her features, but not so much as to overwhelm.  And the coup d’grace is the baring of her left leg up to the knee as every other step reveals the slit in the side of her gown, exposing a shapely calf, a delicate ankle, and a black, high-heeled shoe.

 

He cannot breathe and he has to hold back a telling cough when Jenny slaps him on the back.  “Real smooth, Romeo,” she says under her breath.  But it helps shock Ichabod back into a semblance of normality.  “You two have fun tonight, ok?” Jenny says before she excuses herself from the room.

 

“Night, Jenny,” Abbie calls over her shoulder, scooping a small clutch and what Ichabod presumes is a coat into her arms.

 

Ichabod manages a nod at the younger sister before he turns his attention to the elder.  He desperately wants to take her hand and press a kiss to the tops of her knuckles, but he cannot figure out how without making a bumbling fool of himself.  “May I just say that you are looking particularly beautiful, this evening?” he manages to get out instead.

 

The smile that his words bring to Abbie’s lips makes Ichabod feel twice the man.  “Thank you.  Now, let’s get going.  I wanna grab a quick bite to eat before the ballet starts,” Abbie says as she moves towards the door.

 

Ichabod’s a half-step ahead of her and he opens the door for her.  Abbie smiles her gratitude and walks through.  Ichabod considers it a great feat that he only lets his gaze linger on her swaying hips for a second instead of the much longer he wishes he could indulge in.  He matches his stride so he can walk beside her.  “You never said what production we will be viewing this evening,” he says, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.  By god, is she beautiful. 

 

Abbie glances at him.  “Sleeping Beauty.  Do you know the story?”

 

Ichabod nods.  “Yes, I am familiar with it.”

 

“It’s one of my favorites,” Abbie says in a softening voice. 

 

Ichabod holds the door leading outside the building, but grudgingly lets the driver open the door for both of them.  He does, however, hold out a hand to help Abbie into the car, which she takes instantly.  Her palm is warm against his clammy fingers and he wishes he did not have to let go of her hand.

 

Abbie slides all the way over to the left of the car and Ichabod follows.  The car door shuts and, for a moment, they are alone.  Ichabod looks over at Abbie.  “I wish to thank you for your kindness this evening.”

 

Abbie gives him a wry smile.  “Yeah, I just hope everything turns out ok.”

 

“An evening spent in your company could never be anything but enjoyable,” Ichabod says.

 

Abbie looks as if she’s about to laugh, but she shakes her head instead.  She reaches out to give him a light hit on the arm.  “You’re such a kidder.”

 

Instead of letting hit connect, Ichabod reacts and grabs Abbie’s hand.  “I am being perfectly serious, Abbie.”  Before he can stop himself, he brings her hand to his mouth and presses a feather-light kiss to the tops of her knuckles, just like he’d wanted to 5 minutes before.  Abbie freezes, her eyes lock on his, and Ichabod cannot look away.  The air between them has turned heavy and sultry, thick with anticipation.  They can scarcely breathe. 

 

The tension mounts and before Ichabod can even think of doing something to break it, Abbie gives a small laugh and slips her hand from his.  “You were a big hit with the ladies back in your day, weren’t you?” she asks, but her voice trembles a little and the sound of it gives Ichabod hope the likes of which he hasn’t felt in some time. 

 

The moment is gone, the tension diffused, but Ichabod’s heart still pounds in his chest.  “I was actually hopeless with the fairer sex back in my youth, if you must know.”  The driver gets in the car, but neither of them pay attention to the intrusion, so caught up in teasing each other, they are.

 

The ballet is in New York City, a place Ichabod’s only visited a few times in the modern era.  After a quick meal consisting nearly scalding hot pizza, Abbie and Ichabod arrive at the ballet.  They check their coats at the door and an usher shows them to their seats.  Ichabod marvels at the architecture of the production house and is glad to see that the arts are still valued in this day and age.

 

The seats are good ones, one tier up from the orchestra level, giving them a good vantage point from which to watch the stage, but not so far away that the dancers will be indistinguishable.  The size of the auditorium awes Ichabod.  None of the theaters of his youth ever came anywhere close to housing nearly 1000 people. 

 

“You might want to close that mouth before you catch flies,” Abbie says as they sit down.

 

Ichabod realizes he’s gaping and blushes at being caught.  “My apologies, it’s just….”

 

“They didn’t make them this big back in your day?” Abbie finishes for him.

 

“Yes, quite.”  Ichabod amuses himself by taking in the details all around him.  He glances over at Abbie, who is staring forward at the curtain, a particular look of excited anticipation on her face.  It makes Ichabod’s heart swell to see her so happy and he’s glad that, in doing something for him, she has done something for herself, as well.

 

The lights dim, the auditorium is filled, and the ballet begins.  The music is astounding, the costumes exquisite, and the dancing otherworldly.  Ichabod gets lost in the story, as the king and queen herald the arrival of their newborn daughter, who then gets cursed, only to be saved by a good fairy. 

 

Near the beginning of the Act I, Ichabod notices Abbie shifting out of the corner of his eye and he turns to look at her.  The music swells, the tension builds, and Abbie’s leans forward a little in her seat.  The tempo of the music shifts to a waltz and Abbie begins mouthing words around the tiniest of smiles that curves up her lips.  The joy on her face captivates Ichabod and he can only half pay attention as the stage fills with dancers.  Abbie is radiant, the most beautiful woman he has ever known, and he cannot look away.

 

Abbie brings her right hand up and loosely curls her fingers into a fist that she presses against her sternum, like what she is watching is too much for her to bear.  She even sways a little to the music, completely lost to it, just as Ichabod is lost in her.

 

The waltz ends and, out of the corner of his eye, Ichabod can see who he presumes is Princess Aurora, all grown up, come onto the stage.  Four suitors appear, each of them asking for Aurora’s hand in marriage.  Next to Ichabod, Abbie gasps and reaches for his hand with her left, her right still pressed to her breastbone.  It no longer matters what is happening on stage, because Ichabod would not look away from her for anything.  The music around him is majestic and romantic and he vaguely notices that Princess Aurora is dancing with each of her suitors.

 

And as the dance continues, the tension in the music builds and Abbie’s breath begins to sharpen.  Which is just as well since Ichabod thinks he may have forgotten how to breathe at all.  Abbie is in pure rapture, like the rest of the world may as well not exist, and Ichabod in turn is enraptured by her.  He knows when he sleeps that night, he will dream of her wearing the same expression that she does now, her hair spread out across his pillow as she lies beneath him and he cannot get the image to leave him.

 

Abbie squeezes Ichabod’s hand tighter as the music reaches the height of its tension, her breath coming to her in small gasps, and he’s nearly unable to take anymore.  Just then, the music reaches its breaking point and the auditorium bursts out in applause.  Abbie takes her hand from his to join in, but Ichabod’s left reeling.  His heart pounds as if he’s just run from one end of Sleepy Hollow to the other in a matter of minutes, his mouth is dry, and he is uncomfortably and intensely aroused.  It takes him the rest of the Act to get control of himself and when the lights brighten to signal the start of intermission, Ichabod no longer feels like he will embarrass himself.

 

Abbie turns to him, her smile bright and infectious.  “So, what do you think?  Amazing, isn’t it?”

 

Ichabod smiles in return.  “Amazing, yes.”  He does not have the courage to tell her that she is by and far more amazing than the production that plays out in front of them for fear that he will confess the depths of the love that he feels for her.

 

The rest of the ballet passes without any uncomfortable incidents and, before Ichabod knows it, the driver is pulling up to the front of Abbie’s building.  Ichabod walks Abbie to her door and is loathe to see her go.  “I would like to thank you for a truly wonderful evening,” he says, his voice softening.

 

“It was my pleasure,” Abbie says.  She steps forward, keys in one hand, and braces the other on his lapel, pulling him down so she stand on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek.  “Good night, Ichabod.”

 

Ichabod stands there, dumbfounded, as Abbie unlocks her door and steps inside, closing it behind her with a soft snick.  He walks back down to the car in a daze.  It’s moments like this that make him glad for his perfect recall, for he feels the softness of her lips pressed to his skin the rest of the way home.

 

 

_**Abbie's POV** _

__

Abbie closes her door and leans against it, her heart pounding.  She can hear Ichabod’s footsteps through the door as he walks down the hallway and she lets out a sigh.  He was so…perfect, with the kiss on her hand and the way he looked at her like she was the most precious person in the world.  She is seriously, 100%, head over heels in love with Ichabod Crane and she is starting to think he might return her feelings.

 

It is the scariest thing she’s ever felt in her life.  She doesn’t know what would happen if she lost him and Abbie _knows_ that losing him would be so much worse if she ever got to experience the full force of what she thinks is between them.

 

Abbie shakes the thoughts from her head.  She can’t just enjoy the evening, can she?  Abbie pushes away from the door and moves further into her apartment.  Jenny’s asleep, so Abbie slips her heels off to keep the noise down as she makes her way to her room.  And when she falls asleep, she dreams of soft kisses and clenched hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The waltz that Abbie was mouthing along to is the famous Sleeping Beauty waltz, the one that the Disney song “Once Upon a Dream” is based on.
> 
> The second piece, which comes right after the waltz, is the Rose Adagio, widely considered to be one of the most difficult sequences in ballet.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a general smut warning. Don't say I didn't warn you...

_**Abbie's POV** _

 

“Abbie, you need to wake up.”

 

Like hell, she does.  Not when she’s cocooned by and cradling something warm and comfortable and _perfect_.  Nope, she’s not waking up for anything less than the end of the world.

 

The thought filters through the heavy fog that surrounds her.  Shit, that’s a real possibility, isn’t it?  So Abbie begins to claw her way out of her half-asleep state, the one where she doesn’t know which way is up and she feels like she’s floating on a cloud. 

 

“Abbie, wake up, please.”  The voice is Ichabod’s and he sounds particularly worried and strained even to Abbie’s ears.

 

“’M awake,” she murmurs.  She still feels heavy with sleep, but the world solidifies around her.  Her cheek is pressed up against a cloth covered shoulder and the cocooned/cradled feeling is actually someone’s arms wrapped around her while she’s draped over them.  The heat of another person’s body seeps into the skin of her inner thighs just above the knee and her hands hang over a pair of shoulders, shoulder bones digging into her forearms.  And then Abbie feels the ropes around her wrists and ankles and her heart leaps into her throat.

 

Her eyes snap open.  She looks down.  Abbie recognizes her own black, scoop neck mini dress and Ichabod’s black slacks and pin-striped button down shirt.  Memory hits her like a ton of bricks.  Black market black arts dealer.  Moloch supporter.  Undercover sting operation.  Abbie groans and she presses her forehead against Ichabod’s shoulder.  “Fuck.”  She can’t bear to lift her head to look at him, not when she’s draped over him the way she is.

 

“Abbie?”

 

“What happened?” Abbie asks, still head down.  She needs a few more moments to screw up her courage before she looks at him.

 

“It turns out we are not as good at espionage as we believed,” Ichabod says.  His breath tickles her ear and it makes Abbie shiver.

 

“Were we knocked out?”  Abbie lifts her head from Ichabod’s shoulder and looks him in the eye.  She can’t have her body betray her like it did when he speaks again.

 

Ichabod gives her a deprecating smile.  “Drugged, I think.”

 

Except being this close to his face isn’t helping her sanity.  “Are we tied to a chair?”

 

At this, Ichabod blushes a little.  “Yes.  Our legs appear to be restrained to the supports, with the ends of the rope knotted somewhere beneath the seat.  I attempted to reach it, but I could not reach around you to get at it as my hands are tied behind your back.”

 

Abbie gives an experimental tug against the ropes around her ankles.  Her legs are tied to the chair’s back legs.  Next, Abbie checks her wrists.  Desperation drives out awkwardness and she shifts forward to look over Ichabod’s shoulder at the bindings. 

 

There are no visible knots around her wrists and the rope is twisted in a creative series of loops around her wrists, with about a foot of slack between them, and the ends of the rope tied down somewhere near her feet.  Abbie scoots forward as far as she can go and strains her neck to see if she can spot where her hands are tied down. 

 

She smiles in victory when she sees the knot.  “I can see where my hands are tied,” she says.  “I think I might be able to reach it.”  Abbie reaches down, her knees gripping Ichabod’s hips to keep her balance, and her fingers stretch out as far as she can make them.  She’s inches away.

 

“Abbie, I really wish you would not-”

 

“I almost have it,” Abbie says.  “Just a little bit further.”  She shifts again, trying to leverage herself so that she has the maximum reach possible.

 

“Abbie, _please_.”

 

Abbie stretches as far as she can, but the knot is still just out of reach.  Still, she tries.

 

“Abbie, for the love of God, stop!”

 

Abbie rears back, ready to ask Ichabod what the hell his problem is, when she feels it.  And, oh god, does she feel it.  He’s turned on, like really turned on.  The hard length of him strains against the fabric of his slacks and presses against her inner thigh.  The hair on the back of Abbie’s neck stands on end; a frission of desire skitters down her spine to settle low and warm in her belly.

 

And then Abbie looks Ichabod in the eye and she forgets the rest of the world entirely.  Ichabod’s looking at her like a man at the edge of restraint.  His nostrils flare and Abbie can see the muscle of his cheek jumping beneath the wiry hair of his beard.  His eyes are dark with desire, pupils dilated, the blue of the irises a thin sliver framed between black and white.

 

Abbie’s heart begins beating double time.  She feels warm, too warm, her skin flushed and lips dry.  Her tongue flicks out to wet her lips and Abbie takes in a sharp breath when Ichabod’s gaze drops to her mouth.  He slowly raises his eyes to meet hers again and Abbie doesn’t care about anything else besides the man beneath her – not the predicament they’re in, not what their original mission was, nothing.

 

Holding on to Ichabod’s shoulders as leverage, Abbie shifts her hips and grinds against him.  She moans as the motion presses the length of his erection into the flimsy silk of her panties, the fabric rubbing across her clit and, oh god, that feels so good.  She’s already so fucking wet and she’s never been more turned on.

 

Abbie repeats the motion, curling her hips against Ichabod, and this time, he pushes back, his hips rising to meet hers as best they can, and Abbie can’t stop the “oh god” that spills from her lips.

 

And then Ichabod’s kissing her, his mouth angling hard against hers.  Abbie gasps and opens her mouth to him, her hands cupping the back of his head.  Ichabod’s hands, meanwhile, go to her hips and he helps her push harder against him.  He moans this time, too, a sound that may have been her name against her lips, but Abbie’s too lost in the haze of burning lust to know for sure.

 

His mouth leaves hers and he begins trailing kisses over her jaw and down her neck.  Abbie lifts her head to give him easy access.  The contrast between the prickle of his beard and the softness of his lips on her neck sends chills down Abbie’s spine. 

 

Ichabod abandons his grip on her hips and Abbie gasps when she feels him hiking up further the mini skirt of her dress.  The tips of his fingers brush against the bare skin of her ass and Abbie’s _so_ glad she went with a thong.  Abbie nudges up Ichabod’s face so she can kiss him again as his hands fully cup her ass, his thumbs teasing the thin elastic around her hips. 

 

She wishes she could touch him more than she’s able to.  She wants to reach between them and undo his slacks and take him in her hand, run the skin of her palm and fingers up and down his cock.  She wants to pull her panties to the side and take him deep inside of her and ride him until neither of them can remember their names.

 

It’s like Ichabod’s reading her mind because he lifts her hips up and tugs her thong to the side.  There’s enough slack in the rope that binds his hands for him to reach down and part her folds with his fingers.  Abbie cries out at the first touch of his fingers on her clit and she pushes hard against his hand, needing more, so much more. 

 

“Please,” she begs, speaking the words against his lips.  “I need you inside of me.”  Abbie opens her eyes and nods at the questioning look on Ichabod’s face.

 

Ichabod’s hands abandon her flesh and he slouches in the chair.  Abbie keeps her eyes on his face while she hears him fumble with his belt buckle and zipper before he lifts his hips enough to drag his pants and underwear down just far enough to free himself from the fabric.  Ichabod sits all the way back up and they both moan when his bare cock brushes against the skin of her thigh.  Abbie bites her lip before she kisses Ichabod again.  Together, they align Abbie’s hips and the tip of him pushes inside of her. 

 

Abbie watches the look of sheer pleasure steal over Ichabod’s face as she sinks down onto him, not stopping until he’s completely buried inside of her.  And she’s far from immune, herself.  Her breath comes in sharp pants, her breasts heaving against Ichabod’s chest.  He feels so good inside of her, all hard and hot and heavy and she wants to move, but she’s not sure if Ichabod’s ready yet.

 

And then he thrusts up into her, eliciting a squeaking gasp from Abbie, and she knows he’s ready.  Abbie moves against him, her hips curling with each rise and fall.  She starts off slow, but urgency soon drives the pace.  They’re both moaning, Ichabod holding onto her hips hard enough that Abbie knows there’ll be bruises, but she doesn’t care.  All she knows is the swooning heat that floods her when she pushes back down onto him.  His cock is curved just so and it hits that spot inside of her each time he bottoms out inside of her.

 

She can feel the orgasm building inside of her, coiling tighter and tighter with each roll of her hips.  Every nerve ending begins to tingle with her impending release and she grips the back of Ichabod’s neck as she moves even faster.  Abbie’s desperate now, so close to coming that she wants to cry from the need.

 

Ichabod begins moaning her name and then he’s thrusting up even harder into her as he comes and it’s enough to push her over the edge.  Abbie chokes on a gasp as she comes, listening to the sound of Ichabod calling her name like a mantra, getting louder each time.

 

“Abbie, wake up!”

 

Abbie’s eyes snap open and she’s greeted by the sight of the archives room’s ceiling.  She can see Ichabod just out of the edge of her vision, crouched beside her where she lays across two chairs of the wood and leather bench seat against the back wall.  Blood rushes to Abbie’s face and she hurries to sit up.  But she sits up too fast and the combination of sleep still gripping her and the rush from her dream make her dizzy, causing her to sway.

 

“Are you all right?” Ichabod asks, reaching out for her.

 

Abbie reacts before she can think.  “Don’t touch me!” she says, swatting his arm away.  She plants her feet on the ground and curls in on herself, face pressed into her knees and arms folded beneath her torso.  She doesn’t have to look at Ichabod to know he’s giving her the wounded puppy look, but she can’t bear to look at him yet. 

 

The dream, so crisp and clear and fucking erotic, is still too fresh in her mind and Abbie’s not sure if she can look at Ichabod without jumping him.  And it doesn’t help that she’s really embarrassed.  She’s not ashamed of the dream – she’s had enough of them just like that and had fantasies that put those dreams to shame – but she wasn’t prepared to be woken up out of one mid-orgasm by the man who’s been starring in them.

 

So, Abbie takes in a deep breath and wishes she didn’t feel so empty.  The lingering rush of her orgasm is still fading from her body and she feels fulfilled and empty at the same time, clenching around nothing.

 

After a few moments, Ichabod tries speaking again.  “Abbie, is everything all right?”  His tone is cautious and Abbie feels kinda bad for him.  He didn’t do anything wrong, but he’s being punished anyway.

 

Abbie lifts her head from her knees and sits up, but she still can’t look him in the eye.  “Yeah, I’m fine.  Just…a really powerful dream.”  It’s the truth, or as much as she’s willing to admit, and she doesn’t want to lie and say it was a nightmare when it was anything but.  She notices, then, that she and Ichabod are wearing the same clothes from her dream.  “What happened?  How’d we get here?”

 

“We were compromised at that underground club.  You were drugged, but I managed to get us out of there.  Miss Jenny drove us here not 3 hours ago.  Whatever it was you were given must have affected the potency of your dream.”

 

Abbie nods, but has nothing to say.  She starts to stand.  “I’m going to go splash some water on my face.”  And find a change of clothes, she thinks but doesn’t say.  She’s a little wobbly and Ichabod grabs her upper arm to steady her.  His touch burns into her bare skin and her arousal begins to build back up.  Abbie shakes off Ichabod’s hand.  “I’m fine.”

 

She walks away, heels clacking on the ground, but she can’t resist one look back at Ichabod.  Desire thrums through her still and, even though he’s looking back at her, she knows she can’t keep it from her face.  Face going hot again, Abbie turns and begins walking faster.  She’s not looking forward to giving Ichabod a ride home, that’s for sure.  She just wishes she’ll be able to get him there without jumping him.

 

 

_**Ichabod's POV**_

__

Ichabod watches Abbie walk away, leaving him standing there awash with confused hope.  When he woke her from her dream, he assumed it was a nightmare of some kind.  And the way she reacted when tried to provide comfort only supported his assumption.

 

But as she glances back at him as she walks away, Ichabod knows he’d been wrong.  Even a blind man could see the naked desire that flits across Abbie’s face.  It sends a rush through him like nothing has in quite some time.  And, when Abbie is quick to turn back around, Ichabod knows she’s aware of the looks she just gave him.

 

He watches her until she disappears from view and he knows, sure as day, that the desire that spread across Abbie’s face was for _him_.

 

And so Ichabod stands in the middle of the archives room, alone, and he smiles.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I was sorry
> 
> ...
> 
> I'm not sorry.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to thank all of you who have stayed with this until the end. This has been an amazing journey and I can't wait to take on another.

_**Abbie and Ichabod's POV** _

 

-2 weeks later-

 

Abbie’s hands shake, fingers covered in drying mud, and it’s hard to keep her grip on the steering wheel.  Her whole body trembles, freezing cold seeps into her skin.  There is mud everywhere.  Both she and Ichabod are covered nearly head to toe and since it’s the beginning of December, it’s freezing mud. 

 

Abbie glances over at Ichabod, who’s trembling almost as much as she is.  He has his hands tucked under his armpits and he’s hunched over a little in the seat.  “You all right over there?”

 

“As well as can be,” Ichabod says.  “I do wish your car’s heating system would work a bit faster.”

 

When Abbie started the car, the engine was stone cold and it doesn’t want to warm up enough to fill the cab with heat.  “Yeah, me too,” Abbie says.

 

\----

 

Ichabod looks over at Abbie.  He’s worried about her.  She’s so tiny; he doesn’t know how she’s handling the freezing chill.  “You look as if you’re going to shiver straight out of the car.”

 

Abbie snorts.  “Feels like it.” 

 

Abbie navigates the car along the road through the forest and Ichabod curses the events that have transpired, especially since it all seems to have been for nothing.  A useless tromp through the forest, searching for a long lost burial site, only to have both of them fall into a frozen mud pit. 

 

“I’m going to take us to the cabin.  It’s only a few minutes from here,” Abbie says, her voice still shaking.

 

“I insist you come in and warm up, then,” Ichabod says.  “I cannot in good conscience let you make your way home alone.”

 

Abbie lets out a small chuckle and the sound shakes in time to her shivering.  “I’m not going to say no to that.”

 

\----

 

Abbie pulls up in front of the cabin – a few minutes later just as she said – and kills the engine.  The sun’s almost disappeared beneath the horizon and the air that hits her when she gets out of the car is more than biting.  “Holy fuck,” she mutters under her breath.  She pops the trunk open as Ichabod goes to the cabin’s front door and when she peers inside the trunk, she swears again.  There’s no duffle bag, which makes sense because she took it out to wash the things inside and hasn’t had a chance in days to repack it.  “Damn it!” she says as she slams the trunk closed.

 

“Is everything all right?” Ichabod asks over his shoulder.

 

“Not really,” Abbie says as she walks up behind Ichabod.  “I don’t have my duffle in the trunk.”

 

They’ve been working together long enough that Ichabod knows the meaning of the duffle bag, so he just nods and opens the door.  “I am sure we shall figure something out,” Ichabod says, stepping aside to let Abbie walk in first.  “In the meanwhile, however, I insist that you have the first turn of the shower.”

 

Abbie raises an eyebrow.  “You sure?”

 

“Positive,” Ichabod says.  “I’ve survived worse chills than this.”

 

Abbie knows better than to argue.  Once Ichabod gets an idea in his head, it’s nearly impossible to dissuade him.  “All right, thanks.  I’ll try not to take too long.” 

 

Abbie enters the small bathroom and closes the door behind her.  She flicks on the light, casting the hard surfaces of the room in a yellow, incandescent glow, and takes a good look in the mirror.  She’s absolutely filthy.  Almost every inch of her up to her neck is covered in mud.  Her jeans and jacket are ruined and the long-sleeved tee she wears underneath is soaking wet.  Should have known better than to wear cotton.  The only bright point is that she wore her hair piled up beneath a thick, black beanie and that didn’t get wet at all, which means her hair is fine.  It’s a silver lining she’ll gladly take. 

 

And, so, Abbie turns on the shower and begins the cold and uncomfortable process of taking off her clothes, tossing them in a dirty pile in the corner by the door.  She’s still shivering when she steps underneath the steaming spray and it takes a couple of minutes before she feels her insides begin to thaw.

 

Abbie doesn’t linger long – though she wishes she could – to make sure she doesn’t use up all the hot water.  She turns off the shower and grabs a spare towel from the cabinet under the sink.  She’s halfway through drying off when she realizes she doesn’t have anything to wear.  She looks over at the door and spots the flannel robe that hangs on a hook on the back. 

 

Abbie freezes, caught in a panic.  She remembers the shopping trip when they bought that robe for Ichabod and she knows how soft it is.  It would feel amazing against her skin.  But can she bring herself to walk out of the bathroom wearing only the robe with nothing underneath it?

 

Abbie glances over at her pile of sodden and dirty clothes on the floor and knows that she can either walk out of the bathroom wearing the robe or walk out wearing just a towel and, gee, which one covers more?

 

So Abbie lets out a resigned sigh and grabs the stupid robe.

 

\----

 

Ichabod’s at loose ends, it feels like.  He doesn’t dare sit down anywhere, not with his clothes covered in mud and dirt the way they are – he shudders to think about how much work cleaning out the inside of Abbie’s car is going to take.  So, for what feels like several minutes, Ichabod stands in the middle of the cabin’s main living area and tries not to imagine Abbie naked in the shower.  He fails spectacularly.

 

So now he’s standing in the middle of the living area, both feeling useless _and_ aroused.  Ichabod heaves a sigh and moves into his bedroom.  His boots and jacket get tossed into the corner by the small closet – another two things he’s not looking forward to cleaning – and he passes the time by picking out clothing to wear after his turn in the shower.

 

Abbie must have finished sometime during this process because Ichabod’s pulled out of his task by the sound of the bathroom door opening.  “Has anyone ever told you you’re freakishly tall?” Abbie calls out somewhere in the hallway beyond the room.

 

Ichabod listens to the sound of her footsteps moving into what has been turned into a small laundry room.  “Many people during my boyhood days.  And thank you for dredging up those memories.”

 

There’s a brief pause before Abbie speaks again.  “Sorry,” she says, her voice closer.  Ichabod turns to see Abbie standing in the doorway and he almost chokes on his next breath.  She’s wearing his bathrobe, with the sleeves rolled up and the bottom brushing the tops of her feet.  The sash cinches the robe tight around her waist and Ichabod cannot help but think that the robe looks far better on her than it does on him.  “Is it ok if I borrow your bathrobe?  I didn’t have anything else to wear.”

 

“Fine, it’s fine,” Ichabod says in a rush.  He doesn’t dare think about what Abbie is or isn’t wearing beneath the flannel and how much he wants to remove the robe from her body to find out.  “I am just going to – my turn in the shower.”  He gestures with the pile of clothes in his hand and wishes he wasn’t so easily flustered.

 

Abbie gives him a look, a knowing one, and the usual tension that sits between the two of them ratchets up a level.  “I’m going to heat up some water for tea.  You want some?”

 

“Sounds lovely.”  Ichabod follows Abbie out of the room and tries not to ogle her on his way into the bathroom.

 

He fails.

 

Again.

 

\----

 

The kitchen of the cabin is more like a kitchenette and it doesn’t take very many steps for Abbie to reach the stove from the entrance into the kitchen, her bare feet padding against the cool linoleum.  The kettle’s already on the stove, so it’s a simple matter of filling it with water and turning the right dial. 

 

With the kettle heating, Abbie stands in front of the sink and looks out the window.  The sun’s gone now and the only light is the dim lamplight that spills in from the front room behind her.  Abbie could go over and turn the light on, but she’s fine standing in the partial darkness. 

 

Without the lights, it’s easier to remember the look on Ichabod’s face when he saw her in his bathrobe.  Surprise and desire played out equally on his face and Abbie felt his gaze on her all the way until he walked into the bathroom.  He looked at her like he wanted to slowly undress her and Abbie’s not above admitting that she wants to let him.

 

Abbie’s hands are trembling, only not from the cold this time.  She wraps one arm around her torso and holds the neck of the robe closed with her other hand.  She wonders – hopes – that whatever dance they’ve been doing around each other for the past weeks, or months if she’s being honest, is about to end.  She wonders if she has the courage to take that leap forward.

 

She’s spaced out standing there in front of the window, lost in her thoughts, and the sound of Ichabod’s voice coming from behind her re-anchors her in the present.  “I do believe the water’s boiling.”

 

Abbie looks over to the stove to see steam rising out of the kettle.  “Whoops,” she says with a nervous laugh and moves to turn off the stove.

 

Only Ichabod has the same idea and he reaches the stove a millisecond before she does.  They’re both standing in front of the tiny range, so close to each other that Abbie’s shoulder is pressing into his chest.

 

Abbie’s breath hitches and she turns to look up at Ichabod.  His hair is damp and loose, falling around his face in soft locks and the chest she’s pressed up against is covered in a soft, long-sleeved Henley thermal.  But it’s the look on his face that arrests Abbie’s heart.  Desire and affection and wonder play in equal measures on his features and Abbie does the only thing she can.

 

She leaps.

 

\----

 

Ichabod realizes what is happening half a second before it actually does.  Abbie looks up at him with open resolve and when she reaches up for him, Ichabod reaches back.

 

The first touch of his lips on hers is a soft, tremulous kiss.  Abbie stands on her toes, her head tilted up, and Ichabod winds his fingers in her hair to keep their mouths pressed together.  Her lips are soft, softer than even he thought possible, and the feel of her body pressed against his, her hands resting on his chest, fills him with heat.

 

The kiss draws to a close and they pull back enough to look at each other, eyes meeting in a blazing gaze.  It feels as if every moment they’ve spent together has been leading to this very night and Ichabod cannot help the anticipation that speeds up the beat of his heart and causes his hands trembling where they cradle Abbie’s head.

 

\----

 

Abbie’s never been one for grand words of declaration, but she can safely say that the kiss she just shared with Ichabod set off a cascade of fireworks inside of her.  She looks up at him and the way he looks at her warms her up from the inside out.  So she licks her lips and pulls him down for another kiss, her hands clutching the fabric of his shirt that rests beneath her palms. 

 

Their second kiss is a very different creature than their first.  Abbie’s arms come up to encircle his neck, her whole body flush against his, while Ichabod holds her close, one arm wrapped around her waist with one hand still in her hair.  Their second kiss is all fiery lust wrapped around deep passion and it makes Abbie nearly swoon at the trembling heat that skitters up and down her spine.

 

Abbie hooks a leg around Ichabod’s thigh and tries to leverage herself higher so she can better kiss him.  She thanks whatever deity watching over them that Ichabod’s a smart man because he lifts her up to set her on the counter next to the stove.

 

\----

 

Ichabod allows himself to get lost in the feel of Abbie’s lips on his, of her body pressed against him.  Her fingers dance across the skin on the back of his neck and when she wraps a leg around his own, halfway up his thigh, and he places her on the counter next to them and steps between her parting thighs, he nearly loses all ability to reason.  Her knees grip his hips and the warmth that surrounds him makes him never want to pull away.

 

He does, though, breaking the kiss just enough to look down at her.  But he doesn’t remove his hands from her hips or step back from the cradle of her thighs.  The whimpering noise that Abbie makes in protest nearly crumbles Ichabod’s resolve, but he has to know.

 

“Abbie,” he says, his voice hoarse with need.  “Are you sure?”  It’s a thousand questions all wrapped up in one: are you sure about me, about now, about here, about this?

 

\----

 

Abbie hears all the questions Ichabod’s asking and the answer to each one is yes, a thousand times yes, but words are beyond her at the moment.  Her answer is to push him back toward her with her feet pressing into the back his thighs and nodding before she reaches up to kiss him again.  He responds eagerly, his hands trailing up from her hips to caress her back through the thin flannel that covers it.  Ichabod’s fingers dance over the small of her back and it makes Abbie gasp.  Her skin breaks out with goose bumps and her nipples begin to tighten.

 

Ichabod takes advantage of her gasp to pull his lips from hers so he can kiss his way down her neck and Abbie can’t stop the loud moan that escapes her.  She digs her heels into the muscular curve of his ass and draws him deeper between her thighs, rolling her hips against his to relieve the ache that continues to build up inside of her with each passing second.

 

\----

 

Ichabod can feel the damp heat of her through the thin cotton trousers that he wears and he resists the urge to push back against her.  He knows that she desires him just as much as he does her.  But, he also knows there is nothing that can convince him to continue as they are on the kitchen counter of all places.  No, he needs to make love to her properly, to worship her the way she deserves, and to do that, he needs to move the both of them to his bedroom.

 

Ichabod moves his hands back to Abbie’s waist and he pulls her down from the counter as he steps back.  Abbie looks up at him and she takes his breath away.  Her lips are swollen from their kisses and her eyes are dark with desire, her chest heaving with every breath she takes.  She nods and grabs his hands, pulling him from the kitchen.

 

They step into the bedroom and Ichabod grabs Abbie’s shoulder to turn her around to face him.  He kisses her again, bending down to do so, and runs his hands from her shoulders, down her back, and across her waist and hips to come around to the knot that holds the robe closed.

 

Ichabod breaks the kiss, breathing heavily as he looks down at her.  “May I?”

 

Abbie’s lips part, but no words come out, so instead she nods at him.  Ichabod’s heart begins beating even faster as his fingers work at the knot.  It takes him a little longer than normal, but he manages to undo the sash.

 

Ichabod locks gazes with Abbie as his hands go up to where the two halves of the robe cross over beneath the hollow of her throat.  He feels the shiver run through her when his slides his fingers beneath the fabric, her skin so unbelievably soft to his touch, and slowly pushes the material from her shoulders.

 

The robe falls to the floor with a soft whisper and only then does Ichabod dare look down to see what his hands have uncovered. 

 

It’s almost too much, the sight of Abbie bared to him, and he has no words to properly describe just how beautiful she is.  He takes a step back to look at her.  Exquisite.  She is absolutely exquisite and it’s still not a strong enough statement.  He wants to write odes about her, wax poetic along each inch of her skin in every language he can think of as he worships at the altar of her beauty.  She is all womanly curves and lithe limbs, intoxicating soft, dark skin and, when he looks back up at her face, Abbie looks at him with a wide, inviting gaze and lips begging to be kissed.  She could tempt even the most stalwart of men and her physical beauty is only half of what makes her so alluring. 

 

Ichabod cannot resist her any longer and when he reaches down to kiss her again, his lips hard against hers, he knows he is well and truly lost in love.

 

\----

 

Abbie almost wants to cry.  No man has ever looked at her the way Ichabod is right now, like she’s the most beautiful and precious woman on the planet, of all time.  And then he kisses her again, drinking her in like a man dying of thirst coming upon an oasis, and she lets herself get swept up in his passion.  It’s all too easy, since his passion matches hers.

 

Ichabod’s hands traces down her bare skin, causing her to gasp and moan whenever he skims over a sensitive spot.  She feels her knees begin to go weak and Abbie’s not about to _actually_ swoon, not when this is finally happening.  With Ichabod’s hand still tracing patterns along her back and sides, Abbie grabs a fistful of his shirt and pulls him back towards the bed. 

 

When the backs of her knees come in contact with the mattress, Abbie lays her palm flat against Ichabod’s chest and pushes away, just enough so he looks her in the eye.  And so, his gaze locked on her, she sits on the bed and scoots back until she’s propped up against the pillows.

 

Abbie almost laughs at the way Ichabod’s looking at her, she’s so joyous.  He’s all slack-jawed, eyes roving everywhere.  She can feel his gaze like a physical touch and she takes the opportunity to give his still-clothed form the once over.  Ichabod’s chest is heaving like he can’t catch his breath and his hands twitch at his side like he’s imagining touching her, but Abbie’s gaze is drawn inexorably to his crotch and the _very_ noticeable bulge that strains the fabric of his pajama pants.  Abbie doesn’t know whether to be impressed or freaked out that her dreams and fantasies seem to have accurately figured out the size of him, but she’s got other things to concern herself with.

 

She draws one foot up the length of her calf, knee bending seductively, and crooks a finger.  God, she can’t help herself.  The way Ichabod’s looking at her makes her feel like a goddess, but she still can’t stop the giggle that escapes her lips when Ichabod all but lunges for her.

 

And then there is no more giggling.

 

\----

 

Abbie Mills is a Siren and Ichabod’s a little concerned that she’s managed to keep this a secret from him for so long.  Or, at least it feels that way, with the come-hither look she’s giving him and the way she’s spread out across his bed.  He does not know when Abbie managed to get the upper hand, but he’ll be damned if he lets her keep it.

 

Ichabod crawls after her, nudging Abbie’s legs apart with one knee, and he settles between her thighs as he reaches down to kiss her.  Abbie’s reaction is instant and she arches up into him, her bared breasts pressing delectably against his cloth-covered chest.  Ichabod groans in frustration.  He wants to feel those curves pressed against his skin.

 

Abbie’s already ahead of him on that front, her small hands with their tricky fingers working their way beneath his shirt to begin pushing it up his torso.  Her palms, roughened with calluses, send shivers down his spine as her touch trails up his rib cage.  Ichabod only pulls his lips away from Abbie’s to get the shirt up and over his head and he’s already kissing her again when Abbie tosses the offending article of clothing aside. 

 

Abbie wraps one leg around his hip and pushes up against him, his arousal pressing up against the most intimate part of her.  Ichabod groans at the feel and, though he desires his release, there is still so much left to be done before that happens.  Abbie lets out a moan that is full of impatience, but Ichabod does not let it affect him much.

 

He pulls back and presses a finger against her lips.  “Not yet,” he says.

 

Abbie draws his finger into her mouth, her tongue swirling around the tip, and Ichabod has to close his eyes for a moment to collect himself.  “No, now,” she says around the digit.

 

“Has no one taught you patience?” he asks, having calmed enough to speak again.

 

“I’ll show you patience,” she says, her voice breathy, and she raises a hand.  She begins to slip it between their bodies, but Ichabod fishes it out and holds it down on the mattress.

 

Ichabod presses his forehead against Abbie’s.  “Let me have this, please.  Let me _show_ you.”

 

\----

 

There’s something in Ichabod’s voice that twists at Abbie’s heart and, though her blood pounds with desire and her whole body is wound far too tight with need, she nods up at him.  “Ok,” she breathes.  “Ok, show me.”

 

Ichabod smiles his thanks and rests his upper body on one arm.  With his free hand, he first cups her cheek, his fingers caressing her jaw, and then his hand starts trailing down.

 

Abbie shivers when his fingers brush along the length of her collarbone from her shoulder and in towards her throat.  Ichabod then cuts downward, fingertips dragging down her sternum until he can he can lay his palm flat across her rib cage, below her breasts.  He then skims the skin up and around the outer curve of her breast, the closest he’s gotten to directly touching her the way she wants him to.

 

“There are no words for how beautiful you are,” Ichabod murmurs. 

 

Abbie arches into his touch, her nipples aching for attention.  She watches his face, swept away by how lost he is in her and, when Ichabod looks up into her eyes, one eyebrow raised in questioning permission, Abbie nods.  He cups the outer curve of her breast in his palm and runs his thumb across the tip.  The second he passes over her nipple, Abbie cries out, pleasure shooting straight to between her thighs.  Her nipple puckers immediately and Abbie moans again when he takes the budded skin between his thumb and forefinger, pinching and twisting just so.

 

Ichabod presses a kiss to her collarbone before he lets his mouth join his hand, leaving a trail of wet kisses down the top of her chest, the hair of his beard all but tickling her sensitized skin.  He takes her nipple into his mouth, his tongue flicking her aroused flesh.  Abbie’s hands fly to Ichabod’s head, her fingers tangling up in his hair.  She’s torn between wanting him to stay there forever and wanting more.

 

Ichabod switches hands and uses his newly freed one to give her other breast the attention she craves.  Abbie arches her back into Ichabod’s mouth and hands.  She feels like she’s so close to coming, just from having her breasts touched.  She’s never been so close with so little stimulation before and she shivers to think about how intense things still to come will be.

 

\----

 

Ichabod feasts on Abbie with his mouth and hands.  Her skin is soft as silk and the way she responds to his touch goes straight to his arousal.  He resists the urge to tear off the last of his clothing and bury himself in her.  There is no hurry, no true urgency.  And he wants to remember every slow detail.  There will be time later for fast and frenzied, but that time is not now.

 

Abbie moans above his head, the sound an erotic symphony composed only for him, and it inspires Ichabod to move on.

 

He abandons her breasts, his fingertips trailing down the curve of her waist and hips, while his mouth takes the route across her stomach, her abdominal muscles twitching in response to his touch.  He avoids the apex of her thighs, his final destination, in favor of lavishing attention to her thighs.  He nips the skin above her knee with his teeth as he pushes apart her thighs further.

 

Abbie spreads her legs with little convincing and the scent of her desire reaches him.  He must taste her, to see if it’s as intoxicating as her scent.  Ichabod begins kissing his way up her thigh, alternating between her legs, before he settles in to do something he’s been dreaming about for months.

 

\----

 

Abbie forgets how to breathe as Ichabod kisses his way up her thighs, but she’s forced to remember how when he blows across her wet and engorged flesh and she sucks in a gasping cry.  Oh god, please, she thinks fervently, clit aching and throbbing.

 

“As my lady wishes,” Ichabod says and Abbie realizes she spoke aloud just as Ichabod’s mouth descends on her.  And then thought is irrelevant.  Ichabod teases her with his lips and tongue, and Abbie’s entire world boils down to her clit.  Her belly fills with warmth and the feel of his mouth on her, licking and sucking just where she needs him the most, is far and above anything her fantasies have conjured up in the past.  Abbie’s lost, just fucking lost, in a sea of sensation.

 

She raises her hips to meet Ichabod’s mouth in time to his ministrations and it takes her a moment to realize that the lusty moans she hears are coming from her.  But she doesn’t care.  Abbie has never felt this un-tethered before, this high-flying.  And she’s so close, pulled so taut.  She can feel her orgasm hovering just out of reach and she craves it more than she’s ever wanted anything in her entire life.

 

This is the moment Ichabod chooses to enter her with one long finger, adding a second a moment later.  Abbie cries out and clenches around the digits.  That’s all she needed and then she’s hurtling towards the edge, every nerve ending seizing as her orgasm comes crashing down on her.

 

\----

 

Ichabod wishes he could better see Abbie’s reaction to his touch, but his other senses are well stimulated enough to compensate.  He pushes his hips down into the mattress to try and relieve the ache of his arousal, but he knows true relief will only be found where his fingers are currently occupied. 

 

Abbie’s desire reaches its peak and she cries out, her hands tightening in his hair as she pushes herself against his mouth.  Her walls clamp onto his fingers so tight that Ichabod groans against her sensitive flesh.

 

He stays with his face buried between her thighs as she comes down from her climax and only when she sags against the mattress does Ichabod raise his head.  He presses a soft kiss to her thigh before he crawls back up her body, wiping her wetness from his mouth and beard.

 

He settles back on top of her and Abbie opens her eyes, her chest heaving against his.  “Oh my god,” she breathes, her gaze darting about his face.

 

“So you already said,” Ichabod says, teasing.  He cannot help himself.  He is too proud, too satisfied, over the reactions he wrought from Abbie’s body.

 

Abbie doesn’t seem to care about his tone and pulls him down for a kiss.  If Abbie tastes herself on his lips, or even cares, she makes no indication, opening up her mouth to him once more.  Ichabod lets himself get lost in the wild abandon of her kisses, so lost that he jumps in surprise when he feels Abbie’s hands slip beneath the waistband of his trousers to cup his rear end.

 

Abbie breaks the kiss and smiles up at him.  The expression is so open, it almost hurts Ichabod’s heart to see it.  “I think it’s your turn now,” she breathes.  Ichabod cannot agree more.  Together, they make short work of the last of Ichabod’s clothing and then he’s back between her legs, heart pounding with anticipation.

 

Abbie trails a hand down his chest and reaches between them.  The feel of her fingers wrapping around his length is almost a shock to Ichabod and, for a moment, he cares about nothing other than her hand on him.

 

\----

 

God, everything about touching him gets Abbie ready to go again.  The feel of his cock in her hand, all hot and thick, hard and velvet to the touch at the same time; the way Ichabod shudders and slips his eyes shut, losing himself in the pleasure of her touch.  Poor man probably hasn’t been touched by another person in who knows how many years and Abbie knows she can’t keep up what she’s doing for long unless she wants this to be over sooner rather than later.

 

Ichabod lets her know when he’s had enough of her hand on him because he grabs her elbow and pulls, forcing Abbie to let go.  He kisses her heatedly, forearm planted by her head, and Abbie loves being surrounded by him.  Ichabod pulls back and looks down at her.  “You are too much for a sane man to bear, Abbie.”

 

Abbie smiles.  “In a good way?”

 

“In the best way possible.”

 

Abbie lets her gaze drop to where their bodies are touching and looks back up at Ichabod through her lashes.  “You haven’t finished showing me yet.”  She raises her chin, inviting Ichabod to kiss her again.

 

He obliges, shifting against her to align their hips.  “Allow me to rectify that horrendous oversight.”

 

\----

 

The look of excited anticipation on Abbie’s face is one that Ichabod is sure he mirrors.  He keeps his gaze locked on her face, forcing his eyes to stay open as the tip of him presses against her wet heat.  He groans and Abbie gasps when he starts to enter her.  His world boils down to the feel of being inside of her as he pushes his way slowly into her.  Ichabod watches carefully the pleasure that plays across Abbie’s face, needing not to miss a moment.  He wants to be able to recall every detail.  And so he resists the urge the close his eyes as he buries himself in her, gasping at the tightness that grips him like a vise.

 

And when he is fully inside of her, sheathed to the hilt, Abbie’s eyes flutter and her head drops back, lips parted.  “Oh god, that is so good,” she moans, fingers his biceps.

 

Ichabod has no breath with which to speak, so he only nods and bows his back so he can press a kiss to Abbie’s exposed neck.  She tightens around him, squeezing his length with her inner walls, and she raises her hips against his.

 

Ichabod pulls out enough to thrust back into her, slow and steady, and both of them moan at the pleasure that ripples through them.  And so it begins, the dance as old as time.

 

\----

 

Ichabod feels amazing inside of her, just like Abbie always knew he would.  But, once again, reality far outstrips fantasy and Abbie trembles and moans with each thrust.  Her legs wrap around Ichabod’s hips, ankles hooking behind his back to keep him as close to her as possible.

 

It’s like he was made to fit into her.  He fills her so completely, almost to the point of being too much, and each time he bottoms out inside of her, his pubic bone rubs up against her overly sensitive clit and Abbie knows that if Ichabod can hold out long enough, she’ll come with him buried inside of her.

 

It doesn’t hurt that their gazes are locked and she can see straight to the bottom of the depths of Ichabod’s desire for her.  Abbie wants to kiss him, but she doesn’t want to lose the eroticism of looking at him look back at her.

 

So she bites on her lower lip as she lets out another moan, fingernails digging into his upper arms, face hot with desire.  “More,” she whispers.  “Please.”

 

\----

 

Ichabod cannot resist the need that has him thrusting harder and faster.  He watches Abbie bite her lip and plead with him, her face slack in pleasure, her eyes never leaving his, and it urges him on.  He pushes harder against her and is rewarded with a gasping cry and a tightening flutter of her walls around him.  Ichabod groans, almost overwhelmed by the feeling, but he needs to see her climax, needs to see her face as she surrenders fully to the pleasure that he gives her.  And so he resists, just a little.  But he knows he cannot hold out much longer.

 

\----

 

Abbie feels it approaching: the tingle of her limbs, the rush of blood to her lower belly, the skitter of pleasure down her spine that settles in her lower back.  “Oh yes,” she breathes.  Ichabod thrusts a couple more times, each one harder than the last.  Once more and she’ll be there.

 

\----

 

With each push into her, Abbie tightens around him and it’s beginning to drive Ichabod mad.  He scrambles to hold on.

 

Beneath him, Abbie’s lips part.  “Oh yes,” she says, so quiet he almost can’t hear her for the blood that pounds in his ears.  “Ichabod, I-”  And then her voice breaks off in a loud cry as she climaxes.

 

It’s the most wondrous thing Ichabod’s ever experienced.  Abbie goes taut around him, hips pushing hard against his.  Her expression is one of pure rapture, lips parted in a soft “oh”.  Where he’s buried inside of her, her warm heat spasms around him, squeezing and milking him and Ichabod cannot hold back his own pleasure. 

 

With the feel of Abbie climaxing around him, it doesn’t take much longer before Ichabod follows her.  A handful of thrusts later and he’s spilling himself inside of her, groaning her name as pleasure corkscrews through him.

 

\---- 

 

Abbie comes back to earth in time to watch Ichabod as he comes inside of her and she runs her hands up his arms and around his shoulders, stroking his back as he thrusts hard into her.  Then he collapses on top of her, just for a moment, both of them breathing hard against each other.

 

Abbie’s never felt so sated, so whole, in her entire life.  And the feel of Ichabod’s weight pressing her into the mattress is just delicious.

 

After a few moments, Ichabod raises his head from where it was buried in the pillow and rests his forehead against hers.  Abbie smiles up at him and he opens his eyes to look at her.  The expression on his face is one of satisfied wonder.  It’s a good look on him, one Abbie wants to be able to put there on a regular basis.  “Hey,” she says, her voice a husky whisper.

 

Ichabod chuckles against her.  “Oh, such words of romance from a lady so satisfied.”  Abbie just rolls her eyes and pulls him down for a kiss, joining him in his chuckling.  Let him have his sarcasm.  He's earned it.

 

\----

 

Sometime later, once they’ve cleaned up a bit, they lay beneath the thick comforter spread across Ichabod’s bed.  Abbie lays on top of him, head cradled beneath the crook of his neck, her legs straddling his waist, her hands clutching his sides.  Ichabod runs one hand up and down the bare skin of Abbie’s back while the other rests on her upper arm and occasionally toys with her hair, twisting the thick strands around his fingers.  He cannot remember the last time he was so relaxed.  His heart feels as if it might burst from an overload of emotion.

 

“What happens now?” he muses aloud, almost not caring so long as the future keeps Abbie by his side.

 

“Well, we’re not forgetting this, so, well, you can just forget that happening,” Abbie says.  Her breath tickles the skin of his collarbone and chest.

 

“I would never suggest such a thing,” Ichabod says, turning his head so he can press a kiss to Abbie’s hair.

 

He feels her smile against his neck before she returns the kiss, only against the length of his throat.  “We take it day by day, then.  Figure it out as we go.  We’ve gotten pretty good at that.”

 

“So long as we are together, of that I have no doubt.”

 

“You and your 18th century diction,” Abbie says, her voice growing heavy with sleep.  “Makes everything sound so romantic.”

 

“It’s a skill,” Ichabod says.  

 

Sleep begins to pull heavy on him, as well, and it’s not long until they’ve both fallen asleep, tangled up in each other’s arms, whole at last.

 


End file.
